Sometimes you have to go down to come out

Last week I told you about our anniversary trip to Portugal that went sideways.

This week, I want to take you deeper.

Literally.

Before the surgery, before the hospital, before any of us knew what was coming, Prudence and I visited a place called Quinta da Regaleira in Sintra, Portugal.

It's an old estate with gardens, grottos, and hidden tunnels. But the main attraction is something called the Well of Initiation.

It's not a well for water. It's a well for descent.

The Well of Initiation is a spiral staircase carved into the earth. Nine levels. Each level representing a stage of symbolic death, transformation, and rebirth.

You walk down. And down. And down.

At the bottom, there's no water. Just stone. And silence.

But…

You don't climb back up the way you came.

There's a system of tunnels at the bottom that leads out through the mountain. You exit through darkness into daylight on the other side.

I stood at the bottom of that well, in the quiet, and felt something shift, well actually, the entire trip was full of moments where I felt something shifting….

I didn't know it yet, but I was being prepared.

Two days later, I was on an operating table.

The abscess had been growing for who knows how long. Hidden. Silent. Doing damage I couldn't feel until it was almost too late.

When the surgeon cut it out, he removed something that had been poisoning me from the inside.

(Not to get too graphic, but let's just say I now have a very personal understanding of the phrase "cutting away what doesn't belong.")

I've been thinking about that a lot.

How many of us are carrying things we don't even know are there?

Bitterness we've normalized. Wounds we've buried. Lies we've believed so long they feel like truth.

Sometimes God has to cut to heal.

And sometimes the surgery happens in a foreign country, in a hospital you didn't plan to be on, with a doctor whose name you can't pronounce, (actually I can, it was Pedro, but the street that the hospital was on, nope)

I believe there's a pattern in Scripture. A repeated theme, and as I’ve started to see it, I can't unsee it.

Joseph — thrown into a pit by his brothers, sold into slavery, later imprisoned. Came out as the ruler of Egypt.
Daniel — thrown into a lion's den. Came out unharmed, and his enemies were destroyed.
David — hid in the cave of Adullam, running for his life. Came out anointed to reign.
Jeremiah — lowered into a dry cistern and left to die. Came out and kept prophesying.
Lazarus — placed in a tomb. Came out alive.
Jacob — wrestled with God all night at the Jabbok River. Came out with a limp and a new name.

You see it?

The pit is not the end of the story. The pit is the turning point.

I actually think that every single one of us has a “pit” or really a series of “pit” moments, they are unique to us and ONLY us, and through those experiences, we have a unique opportunity to worship in gratitude a unique expression of worship to the father…

Psalm 40:1-3 says it plainly:

"I waited patiently for the Lord; he turned to me and heard my cry. He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand. He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God."

In Genesis 32, Jacob is alone at night by the Jabbok River. A man (some scholars believe it was God Himself) wrestles with him until dawn.

Jacob refuses to let go.

"I will not let you go unless you bless me."

So God touches his hip. Dislocates it. And Jacob walks away with a blessing, a new name (Israel — "one who struggles with God and prevails"), and a limp he'll carry for the rest of his life.

Here's what I'm learning through this…

The limp was not a punishment. It was a mark.

It was proof that Jacob had encountered God. That self-sufficiency had been broken. That from now on, he would lean — not on his own strength, but on his staff. Full dependence.

I think I came out of Portugal with a limp.

Not a physical one. (Well actually still healing, so kinda yea, hoping it goes away)… Something shifted. Something broke. And It’s NOT coming back.

I'm not the same person who got on that plane.

I believe that's actually the point.

If you're in a pit right now — a season that feels low, dark, confusing — I want you to hear this:

The pit is not wasted.

God does some of His deepest work in the lowest places.

He doesn't always rescue you from the descent. Sometimes He meets you in it. Sometimes He uses it to cut out what's been poisoning you. Sometimes He lets you wrestle until dawn — and then touches your hip so you'll never walk the same again.

Psalm 116:7 says, "Return to your rest, my soul, for the Lord has been good to you."

That verse doesn't pretend the hard thing didn't happen. It says: even after the hard thing, you can return to rest. Because the Lord has been good.

Not "will be good someday."

Has been good. Already. Even in the pit.

What's Next
Next week, I'm going to tell you about what happened after the surgery.

The windmill. The castle. The transition from recovery to preparation.

There's a difference between where you heal and where you reign. And God doesn't confuse the two.

But for now — if you're in a low place — don't run from it.

Ask God what He's doing in it. Ask Him what He's cutting out. Ask Him what new name He might be writing over your life.

The pit is not the end.

It's the turning point.