I wrote this piece some time ago and just found it this evening at the bottom of a mountainous stack of papers on my desk. Since it will probably be a while before I am able to write a decent post again, I thought I'd give it to you to mull over until then. Years ago, before kids and a mortgage, my husband Abe and I decided to celebrate our anniversary with a trip out West. The plan was to fly to Portland, Oregon, meet up with some dear friends of ours, then drive down through California to Yosemite National Park. It was the first time I’d traveled to the West coast, and I was eager to see all that I could see. Indeed, we did see many awe-inspiring things that the Midwest, where I was born and raised, lacks.
One of the highlights of our trip (or lowlights, depending on your view of it) was a day excursion our friend, Tim, took us on. Tim is a very fit fellow. He hikes. He’s trim and athletic. My husband had hiked with him extensively in the past, but I confess that I am not much of a hiker—scratch that, I’m not really a hiker at all—so since our marriage, Abe has done little in the way of camping or trekking anything steeper than the nearby bike path. Suffice it to say, we were not at our prime physical peak when Tim suggested we “hike” Mount St. Helens. But again, Abe had been an accomplished outdoorsman, and I am moderately athletic, so we figured Tim had considered our physical limitations and planned accordingly.
Apparently, Tim has a different perception of what is exactly in our comfort zone. The hike up the mountain was far more than we had anticipated—no trouble for Tim, slightly more trouble for Abe, and a whole lot of trouble for me. Oh, it started out easily enough, similar to a challenging trail in a local park, but once we got up past the timber line, things became substantially more difficult. Instead of treading the well-worn trails we’d traversed from the parking lot, we were pulling ourselves up over vertical miles of sharp volcanic rock. It was physically demanding, the day was hot and humid, Tim was climbing full-speed ahead, and I was worn out.
I was mad, frankly, that we’d followed him trustingly into this outing, believing it would be a fun adventure, when in reality, it turned out to be just a lot of work. There were lots of shops and tourist traps I’d rather visit, I concluded, than some treacherous mountain. It was a mountain, for pete’s sake! The only good I could see of it was that we’d come after the volcano had erupted. That meant less mountain to climb.
Sad to say, I did not keep any of these negative comments to myself. No, I was vocal about my discomfort and displeasure, and spoke it loud enough for anyone to hear. You’ve never heard anyone whine the way I did that day. My husband, the lapsed hiker, confided in me that this was the hardest hike he’d ever done in his life, and that if he’d known how difficult the climb would be, he would have suggested to Tim that a different activity might be better, or at the very least, he would have suggested that I stay home. But Abe hadn’t known. So there we were, stuck on what I called “this stupid, stupid mountain,” with seemingly no end in sight.
I whined for hours. Literally. I complained about thirst. Fatigue. Aches and pains. Heat. But still we climbed, higher and higher. I knew that we’d better get to the top to make the trip redeemable in any way, but I was doing my very best not to like it.
Finally, after hours of scrambling over craggy rock and trudging the steep incline of unforgiving, unrelenting volcanic ash, we reached the top. Suddenly, as I looked down into the vast crater at the center of the mountain and out over miles and miles of lush, mountainous terrain, it all seemed worth it. Peering over so much of God’s miraculous and beautiful creation, I was overwhelmed. I couldn’t keep from smiling. I was no longer thirsty or tired; instead, I was renewed and energized. We snapped pictures, savored the moment, felt kinship with our fellow climbers, and chiseled the images into our memories. There was not a complaint or whine to be heard from anyone, even me.
The way down was every bit as difficult, if not more so, and I am embarrassed to admit that I complained about that as well. I was bitter when my husband and Tim went on ahead of me and I lagged behind. I completely forgot about the high I’d felt at the summit. I was back in the whiny pit of despair, firmly planted there until the hike was over.
On the drive back to our friends’ house, though, the arduous trek behind me, I felt exhilarated. I knew this would be a great experience to reflect upon in the years to come, a wonderful story to tell, and an accomplishment I’d savor. Only one thing marred it: the fact that I’d been so whiny and baby-ish the whole time. I wished that I had kept silent about my frustrations and forged ahead bravely. I felt as if I didn’t deserve to have accomplished the summit because my attitude had been so poor. I wanted to do it all over again, but without the complaining spirit.
I knew this experience at Mount St. Helens had to be a metaphor for some other part of life, but at the time, I was not sure what. It is only years later, as I’m now chasing after kids, trying in vain to keep up with laundry, dishes, and bills, trying to stretch every dollar, and struggling to update our “fixer-upper” home, that I see it. So many days, I look at the things around me that I am charged to maintain, and I feel overwhelmed and tired. I resent being stuck in an uphill climb and long for the day when the path shallows and the way gets easier. I think that if someone had told me just how difficult the journey would be, I would have skipped it and gone to some nice shops instead. I spend those days bitter and complaining. Those are dark days.
But the St. Helens climb has a lot to say about living. God has put things in our lives—obstacles, it sometimes seems—for us to conquer and maintain, things like mortgages, families, ministries, and work. So often, we come to resent them for what they become—labor—and miss the joys they bring to our lives as well. We complain and whine about them, thinking instead of how our life could be easier or better. We miss altogether the fact that God has given these things to us as blessings. Is marriage a struggle? Perhaps. But your spouse is God’s gift to you. Do children manage to make us crazy? Occasionally. But children are a blessing. Does your home seem to be crumbling around you? It seems like it sometimes. But it is God’s provision for us.
The point is, we sometimes spend so much time complaining about God’s blessings, we miss the wonderful and miraculous view of his creation and provision. We don’t see the awe-inspiring view of life and its design, we only see our tired feet and aching backs. When we get to heaven, do we want to remember how our complaining and bitterness tarnished the experience? Or do we want to have shouldered on, thankful that God gave us the opportunity to make such an amazing climb? Do we want to be ashamed of our attitude and approach to life in the face of God’s limitless grace and blessing, or do we want to have been appreciative and fruitful? Perhaps instead of resenting the journey, we should seek to find joy in it.
During the rehearsal before the "concert," I shot a whole bunch of not-very-good pictures to document the occasion. I was so proud that my little girl was old enough to be singing about how Jesus Loves her, how All Ye Little Children should Praise Him, because God is Love. I was thrilled that there were portions of Scripture that she could recite. I love it when she hides God's Word in her heart! My heart swelled. Oh, there were funny moments during the rehearsal, like when Mallory let Charis go to the bathroom and Charis returned with the front of her dress tucked into her tights. Charis crossed the entire stage before God and everybody until some kind soul noticed the wardrobe malfunction and helped her out. But all-in-all, it went very well. I was so excited to see the whole thing during the actual service.
Dear, sweet Ruby. I haven't posted pictures of her for a while, so I thought it was high time I gave you an update on her.
III) She has words. My favorite is "ugrb," followed by "eeek."
F) She sucks her thumb. At first, she'd get her thumb in her mouth with an open hand that would cover her face. Now, she's more experienced, and she hooks her pointer finger over her nose like a pro.
But then, people started clinking their glasses. Abby and Doug had been at far ends of the room, and convened near the head table for the customary kiss...only, she brought a friend. Ruby. I'd say that, with the exception of the HILARIOUS toast given by one of the "bridesmaids" (he was a guy, and not only did he use the word "bedazzled" in his speech, he also sang a ditty from The Music Man. We were in tears with laughter), this moment was about the highlight of the reception. The bride and groom say that they want to wait before they introduce children into their family, but I'm not so sure.
But make no mistake: while others may borrow her, she belongs to us! And we're not giving her up!
This summer, I was definitely on a grilling kick. You name it, I grilled it. The upshot is that our grill is stored in our garage, so every time I wanted to grill, I had to open the garage door. Now, to Judah, going through the garage door is like entering the magical world of Narnia; so many shiny things to touch, an alternate reality to imagine. He is drawn to Abe's tools, many of which took up residence on a makeshift table in the garage this summer. So when the magical world opened, Judah was the first one on the scene, fiddling about with socket wrenches and all sorts of tools whose names I do not know. For all I know, they could be called things like, "Blue-handled pointy thing" and "Round-ish flat metal Thingamabob" or "Screwdriver." Judah simply doesn't care what they're called. He just knows that he sees his daddy use them all the time to fix things, and he wants to be exactly like daddy. On one particular day this summer, when I was smoking ribs and chicken and making a hundred return trips to the grill to adjust vents, add wood, and brush on sauce, Judah tagged along just so he could "fix" a spare tire that sat near the grill. In the photo above, he's helping dad work on the brakes, I think. I know Abe loves that Judah takes an active interest in such things, and he's only mildly annoyed when essential nuts and bolts come up missing.
Judah loves daddy. Daddy loves Judah.
See this girl? That's me, sometime in the early eighties. I don't think about this girl very often, mostly because my recall is not very strong. I don't remember a whole lot of specifics about my childhood--I remember in snapshots, not stories, and consequently, the tales I have to tell to my kids about my youth are few. The magical thing about memory, though, is that even if it can't be called up in an instant, that doesn't mean it's not there; a scent, a look, a song all trigger memories hidden deep in the dusty, cobwebbed recesses, and suddenly, they all come rushing back, fresh. Take this photo, for instance. This was taken in my grandfather's house. And that cat there is my first cat, Karen. There's only one reason Karen would have been at my grandfather's house, and that's if this picture was taken the day I made Karen mine and we took her over to meet the family. That means this picture was taken in the late summer of the year when I was six. I remember nothing more about the day, but suddenly, looking at this photo gives me some lines to color in. I will tell Charis the story about The Day Mommy Got Her First Cat, and even though many of the details will be recently-concocted embellishments, I know the framework will be true. (P.S. Judah looks JUST like me. This picture is further proof.)
See that look in her eye? She's just sitting in a mini-train at the fair, waiting to take a two-minute spin around a 1/32-mile track. But she's there with her cousins and her brother, and she sort of looks like she's waving at us, and you can almost her the gears turning in her head, spinning a tale of her adventure to come: Farewell, dear parents. We're off on a grand adventure! Of course, some girls would be scared to be on their own at such a young age, and put in charge of three other kids on an excursion like this, especially since there is all probablility that our train will derail somewhere in the Alps and we will be the only survivors, lost and on our own. But I am brave and smart and strong, and I will protect us from the kidnappers that will inevitably try to take us. We will hide under tarps and behind doors to escape their grasp. And when we get hungry, I will beg for food if I must, but we will be well-fed. I will create a tasty new dish from the scraps I collect to feed us, and perhaps a passer-by will stop and sniff it and think it smells delicious and say that I should be a restaurant chef. And of course I will become one, because I have three other mouths to feed--and maybe more, because other wandering children might see my excellent, capable leadership skills and want to be protected and taken care of and join our gang. And wouldn't it be amazing if you saw a photo of me in the newspaper in the review of my restaurant that declares it "The BEST RESTAURANT EVER" and you realized at that moment that you knew I was always meant for greatness, and if you'd only known that when you sent me off on a train trip from which I would never return, you wouldn't have lain awake in bed all those years wondering where I was and if I was safe. 
I was also scared of roller coasters. So, see? She's just like me.
I don't know if this one really looks all that much like her, but I loved the band-aids on her knees. In the interest of full disclosure, you should know that she actually didn't have an injury that warranted bandaging--she just wanted to wear her new Hello Kitty band-aids. You know, for the fashion of it.
Here's Judah once hehad calmed down from the trauma. Note the goose egg on his head, and the end of his second popsicle. I couldn't believe how quickly this bump sprang up, nor could I believe how long it took to go away: it took only second for the bump to form, but it was weeks until the swelling went down, weeks until the purple bruise started to turn greenish yellow. And when it did eventually start to fade, the bruising migrated down between his eyes, giving Judah his first shiners. Then his shiners turned green, too, so instead of calling him Brown Eyes, we took to calling him Green Eyes. Poor kid.
Here he is a few weeks later, when the bruise had started to fade. Notice the green in the corners of his eyes? That took forever to go away.
