A few years ago, my husband and I returned from a long hiking trip, where day after day, we struggled with the steep ascents before us, one step after another. Sometimes that is all any of us can do. Even now, back in real life.
This extended journey called for far more than I was capable, beyond what I could ever conceive, or attempt, or actually do, one step, one day at a time. Every night when my feet ached and blisters throbbed, still speechless from what I had seen, dropping exhausted into bed, I knew very well that I could not stop, because simply of what I would miss. Not one day, not even one hour gone, missing what could prove to be the most important, the most spectacular piece of a real life 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle. There were passes through the mountains, passages trod from ancient times, vistas that were so majestic I wanted to stand and applaud, simply because I had no words. And then, after another rough and rocky section of the trail for a couple more hours, we would emerge again from the dark forest or difficult paths into another dimension of impossible beauty.
One clear blue day, after a particularly rocky ascent, we rested by a clear glacial lake as if we were painted into a story. It seemed almost irreverent to eat lunch in such a sacred space.
Each day became a deeply engraved memory, all significant moments, each piece, each catching of my breath as we traveled through the glory of God. Before us, an overwhelming face of sheer rock would appear, the steepest of ascents I could ever imagine, and somehow in the face of the impossible, I would see just one doable toe hold, an intersection of broken rocks, a root, a crack, pulling myself up, before another emerges, trusting for the next. Everyone struggles with something impossible. We all do. And sometimes even more so traveling downward, looking for a tiny level spot, a spiky rock to keep me from sliding or falling. I hiked in the same careful words of the ancient psalmist, a divine place for my steps, and my feet did not slip.
Don't look down. Definitely don't trip now.
I had the wrong shoes to hike this far, but my boots had betrayed me. And so, I dealt with what I had, I got up every morning with aching feet and blisters hidden by big patches, raw places covered by adhesive and praying please God, heal my feet so that I can finish this strong, that I can finish what we have started. I found respite in the laughter and conversation of strangers turning into friends, and following each other, one by one, those whose hiking boots I came to memorize, knowing their shoes, their crazy hiking socks, and their unfolding stories, bits of our lives floating like the clouds. Even then, we knew full well these moments were fleeting, even with so many pictures taken in an effort to freeze our lives in this time and place, even with the awe of creation so thick we were often without words or limited by vocabularies in any language. We were lost in the music, a song, a verse, a chorus still resounding through our dreams at night, still walking in my sleep weeks later, beyond the frames of our photographs, the bigger picture still.
We returned home. We could not but be changed by this, what we now know, what we have seen and felt and struggled through, what we still cannot grasp, a strength that is not our own, and boots left behind that no longer fit.
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