A Good Friday Scramble

With my feet and arms spread out from under me and feeling a bit like an awkward starfish clinging for dear life, I am paralyzed.  One more move and I’m pretty sure the only directions I’ll be going is backwards.  The summit is just within reach, but my muscles are strained from the athleticism I have suddenly required of them and I am so unbelievably tired.  The loose rock under me starts to shift and I am taken over by gravity as I slowly slide down the steep incline. 

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Tying our shoelaces for the morning, my brother and I were getting ready to hike up one of the easiest trails to reach the summit of Snowdon, the highest mountain in Wales.  As official N.A.R.P.s (non-athletic retired persons) we are the first to admit how out of shape our bodies have become since our college days of swimming 20+ hours a week.  This backpacking trip through Wales was a holiday for both of us, and while we wanted the views of the majestic mountain peaks, we were going to take the easiest way to get up there.  No shame. 

All set and ready to go, we met a fellow traveler who was staying in the same hostel as us.  We mentioned the trail we were going to take, and he looked back at us with surprise.  “Don’t you want a challenge? I like to feel accomplished when looking back on the journey I’ve climbed.”  Well, what were we supposed to say to that?  Our competitive spirits taking over, suddenly we found ourselves starting our hike on a much different trail than originally planned.   One of the hardest paths offered, based on the extreme elevation change and loose scree (broken rock fragments) towards the summit.

As the morning sunlight blanketed the mountains of Snowdonia, we set off.  We basked in the rich vitamin D soaking into our pours as we crossed through the farmlands and ascended up to the slate quarry.  We paused at the beauty of the gushing waterfalls and gave our heartbeats a chance to slow down with the rapid incline.  Our thighs burned, our backs were sore, and our cheeks were sunburnt.  And we were loving every bit of it. 

Right before leaving, that fellow traveler had asked me how experienced I was with “scrambling.”  My brother responded to my confused and blank stare, saying I have never done it before, but I would be fine.  It wasn’t until we were halfway up the mountain that it dawned on me to ask what scrambling meant.  Not a big deal, he replied, you’ll just have to use your hands and feet to support your weight because there will be a bunch of loose rock under you. 

Right, no big deal.     

I am apparently not the best with this scrambling business and suddenly I am wishing for some solid ground under my hands and feet.  The loose rock under me starts to shift and I am taken over by gravity as I slowly slide down the steep incline…but as I start to slide down, I am desperate to go forwards.  So like a dog on a frozen pond with ice skates attached to her paws, I literally scramble to the summit.

Hiking has always seemed to carry significant parallel journeys of the happenings in my life: a descent down the Mountain Kingdom of Lesotho birthing a beautiful friendship, a calm stroll through John Bryant days before graduation.  It all holds special meaning and allows the opportunity for reflection on how Christ is alive. 

On this particular Good Friday, I am able to lie down and close my eyes on the top of the mountain.  I reflect the struggle, the weight, and the paralyzed fear this day holds for Jesus.  I think of the struggle, the weight, and the paralyzed fear this year has held for me.  I think of the new trail I will take to descend, my hike not yet finished, and the unknown trials and gifts it will bring.  I think of the new journey I will take when this year is finished, and the unknown trails and gifts it will also bring.  My brain is spinning, but eventually the stillness of my body with the calm presence of mountain air takes over, and for a moment, I am just present.      

Looking back on our journey climbed, it was definitely a challenge, but I wouldn't use the word accomplished to describe my feelings. 

Grateful.  Awe-filled.  Loved.     

The City is Calling

Standing at the top, I easily let the feeling of accomplishment wash over me as the wind dances wildly through my hair and my heartbeat pulsates from the steep elevation.  Standing at the top, it’s easy to look down at the journey I’ve just taken, up the long, rocky trails through pastures and acres of land.  And for a second, I can just take in this moment and be happy.

Of course, it’s only for a second.  Then my mind starts to wander about the journey I’ve just taken and how hypocritical I’ve been.

Spending a week in Derbyshire for a conference with my fellow YAGMs, we were given the opportunity to go on a hike led by one of the professors leading lectures.  We set off in the morning, and I loved falling behind at the back of the pack – camera in hand - as I looked through my lens attempting to capture the beauty the Artist created.  I focused and I gave thanks, over and over again zooming in clarity and clicking the shutter. 

Thinking from the top, not once on the journey up did I ever falter or doubt.  I trusted blindly in the professor and expected to complete the hike safe through his guidance.  I did not know where I was, what trail to take, or what would happen when I reached the top.  All I did was continue to move forward, one foot in front of the other, camera in hand, in perfect harmony with the movement of the wind and the people in front of me. 

The hypocrisy lies in the contrast in which I trust in God.  Here walking up this unknown mountain, I could trust in our guide and enjoy while giving thanks to God.  Yet every day in my unknown climb through this mountain called life, I doubt and I worry and I falter.  Every day I forget, and every day I must remind myself that it is not about a guide but The Guide leading me, as I put one foot in front of the other.

Mountain hikes have always held significant meaning in my heart, and I know I will always think of this particular journey as the important reminder of ultimate trust.  

This week was one of rejuvenation, of growing friendship and intellectual conversation.  It was also an easy week, living in the comfort of a college where my meals were prepared for me and the dishes were cleaned behind common eyesight view.  I was taken cared for by the staff, and only had to follow the schedule given to me (once again, just blindly trusting without given thought).  As I return to London, hesitation comes naturally to the known hardships corresponding with the true aspects of simple living, but I remind myself to trust in God as I put one foot in front of the other.  I must continue to move forward, on the narrow path leading me on.

The mountains speak their ever powerful voice in the structural awe in which they’ve been created.  But I cannot stay. My real mountain this year lies in the city; in my budgeted spending, classroom planning, ceiling leaking hike, in the true, hard beauty in the eyes of the Artist.   

So I pack my bags.  The city is calling, and I must go.