Cure For A Heavy Heart

Out my window a squirrel reclines like John on Jesus’ breast.  A summer night in Joshua Tree I watched meteor after meteor streak across the sky in a Perseid shower.  There are small delights in nature as well as great grandeur and beauty. On the flip side she can be a horror, a “howling wilderness.” As I write this hurricane Melissa has savaged Jamaica and is bearing down on Cuba and the Caribbean. It is in this tension between its enormity, power and beauty that man continues to find perspective and peace.

“There is but one spot on El Capitan’s upper margin where one can lie down and look into the abyss 3,300 feet beneath him. If a man is a little touched with self-conceit, let him seek this position. Then in his humility and thankfulness would he exclaim with good old Job, “What is man that thou shouldst magnify him.” So writes James Mason Hutchings, the father of Yosemite. I had a similar experience hiking solo down the Narrows in Zion national park. As I stood in the river with towers of red rock rising on either side, I felt immense peace and an assurance that God was in control.

Spurgeon, the great preacher struggled with deep depression. He wrote, “He who forgets the humming of the bees among the heather, the cooing of the wood-pigeons in the forest, the song of birds in the woods…needs not wonder if his heart forgets to sing and his soul grows heavy.” I have sensed God in wind whipping down a canyon and grass growing beside a pond.

Cycling up the west coast years ago a friend and I got stuck in a storm. Hail pelted our helmets as we climbed hills overlooking the ocean. In that beauty with nature fiercely hurling herself at us, I felt very much alive. When soul and heart grow heavy there is no cure like hurling ourselves from our creature comforts into an encounter with creation.

Call Of The Lover

Trembling, I felt unable to move. An eight-hundred foot drop on either side kicked into gear my existing fear of height. Crouching down on the saddle that separated arduous switchbacks from five-thousand-foot peak, fear had me frozen. Having twisted up three-thousand feet of elevation gain I had two choices. Retreat back to safety or finish the climb?

How was it that I ended up there anyway? The answer to that question lies inside of another question; where does it go? Where do those roads in every Dr. Seuss book lead? What does that line on a map look like in the flesh? A confluence of events led me to Cub Scouts. Cub scouts led me farther outside the city. Nature led me into beauty and adventure.

There are premises hard wired into us that when pursued lead to peace, ignored they lead to our detriment. Anxious and fearful in my teens, I felt no fear in the outdoors. No fear of snakes, bugs, or bears---and a limited fear of heights. Scouting was the vehicle God used to move me from sea-level walks to glacier high climbs.

My first major purchase; a dark blue, external frame backpack. My second purchase, a pair of hiking boots. The pack leaned against my wall, being filled or emptied, unloaded or made ready.  Short trips every other weekend. Long trips every vacation break. From rolling coastal walks in the Santa Monicas, to craggy climbs in the Sierra. An Easter trek down Hermits’ trail in the Grand Canyon, summer solstice in the the Bob Marshall wilderness of Montana. That backpack fit like a glove, those boots broken-in, part of my body.

Like the gentle feel of a lover’s finger on your cheek, are the feelings stirred by the outdoors. The sense that you can fly when the backpack comes off after an eight-mile hike. Your shirt wet with sweat; spreading yourself out on a large shale boulder for warmth. Feeling the world spin as the sun goes down and that first star climbs into the sky. That first band of sunlight warming the camp after a frigid cold night. A place to sleep that smells of pine and not like cigarettes. Gurgle and crash of ice-cold water over rock as you fill your water bottle for the day. Your lover keeps calling you back.

When friends bid you, come with us to hike the Virgin river and trails of Zion, you say yes. Celebrating your final day in the park you go all in for a day hike to Angel’s Landing. A straight-forward path to the top brings you to the final half-mile portion, bordered by a chain which you can grab hold of to navigate the trail. Hopefully avoiding the steep drop offs into Zion and Refrigerator canyons. This is where paralysis set in. So my friends encouraged and prayed me through the saddle. To the top of the landing where I sat in the middle, far from the edge. Having made it to the top it was easier to make the trip back down the trail. A trip which I would make again some years later. Same trail, same quaking prayers, same positive result. I knew somehow that straddling that precipice was central to who I am. Nature would always be a place I found self. The hard wiring is the call of the lover.

Photo by Gregory Brainard on Unsplash

Adrenalized Days Need More Than Z’s.

Lord, my heart is not proud, nor are my eyes fixed on things beyond me, in the quiet, I have stilled my soul, like a child at rest on its mother’s knee, I have stilled my soul within me. - Come to the Quiet, John Michael Talbot

My wife awoke in a panic. Trembling. She had this question on her mind, “What’s the name of the guy who starred in Spenser for Hire?” Our nights currently are fraught with these terrors. Our sleep a strange dance; part jitterbug, part swim. Throw in the snoring, his/her alarms plus the occasional amber alert and it’s a wonder we don’t always face our days tired. Daily life pours into our pursuit of sleep. Adrenalized days need more than z’s. There’s a desperate need to find rest.

Like a seal basking in break of day sun, a friend rises early to greet God. Rest of soul and receptivity to God seem to come easier to them (I’m certain that’s not true). A cruciform life posture marks friend Kelly who finds easy repose on the breast of the savior.

Possibly posture. Maybe ebb and flow. Can’t get there most times. That child sitting on his mother’s knee squirms away. My coffee table chair, my Papua New Guinea arabica, blue enamel mug, Michael W. Smith melody, a glimpse, an open window to a place I’ve not arrived.

It’s as hard for me to know rest as it is for me to describe rest. A warm San Fernando summer night Mike and I pulled beach chairs onto his lawn after midnight. We sat feet from the sidewalk and dreamed dreams. Laughing, laughing; so loud the neighbors came outside to tell us to be quiet. As much a picture of rest to me as another summer day in the dry heat of Zion. Fremont cottonwood pollen blowing down atop cold canyon river, orange Navajo sandstone cliffs forcing me ever forward. Into the quiet.

That night with Mike, that day in the Narrows echo that famous line, “God made me fast and when I run, I feel His pleasure.”  Getting caught up and letting go; being safe and carried away. Rest is Kellys’ cruciform posture, the sea lion on a stone, a quiet canyon, a child on her mother’s knee.

Photo by Alex Azabache on Unsplash

The Chains That Free Me

One of the problems with the Angels Landing Trail is that it isn't a trail at all, but a series of rock steps so narrow and precipitous that chains to hold onto have been bolted into the rock face. This isn't entirely unusual: Think Half Dome, but instead of a continuous cable-assisted climb, picture narrow rocks barely large enough to stand on in spots — and large gaps between chains.---Julie Sheer, Los Angeles Times Reporter

I’ve climbed Angels’ Landing twice and the second time was worse than the first. Putting in all the work to get near the Landing it seemed ludicrous to stop or turn around simply because I am afraid of heights. I prayed for the grace to make it to the Landing and continued to climb, scared and unsteady, hands sweating as they gripped the chain railing hammered into the side of the mountain to secure the route to the end of the trail.

There are seasons when faith is like this. I walk along unsteady not even certain where the end of the trail is or if it exists. One good gust and I will be pushed toward my death as was the Glendora woman that fell to her death in 2010.

What are the chain railings that keep me on track? The first is just plain facts. There are moments that I doubt my faith and doubt the truth of Christianity. When these winds blow I hold onto historical, archeological and mathematical truths as laid out in Evidence That Demands A Verdict (a book that lays out sound proofs for such topics as: The reliability of the Bible, Jesus-A man of history, The messianic prophesies and the resurrection). This is the most secure railing that I hold to as I ascend.

I’ve been journaling since High school and blogging since 2006. Both chronicle my life and the testimony of what God has done through these last seven years. In difficult times I tend to narrow my focus and forget the big picture. Looking back helps me see how God guided me through other rough patches. Looking ahead keeps my eyes off the precipice and on the goal and the final resting place.

In this case the chains free me. They secure me to what is true and guide me to the final Landing. Once there I can rest securely---at least until it’s time to make the trip back down.

Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons linked HERE