There were better things I probably could have been doing than running on that sultry Tennessee-humid afternoon. But I don't know what that would be. Cars inched past me on a paved nature loop, windows rolled up to keep the cool inside, the occupants comfortable and wide-eyed, looking for usual sightings that invite tourists and snarl traffic for miles.
I could have been one of them. But I preferred being outside, running through the wilderness instead.
There would be bears, I was sure of it. There always are. I see at least one almost every time I run that winding road. But what I witnessed while running that day was something I didn't expect. Something I will never forget.
One of my all-time favorite places to run is the 11-mile Cades Cove nature loop in Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Weaving its way through a small valley surrounded by a ring of mountains, this narrow one-way ribbon of asphalt is known for wildlife sightings. Or what our grandchildren call "rarely seen wildlife creature moments."
If you want to see a black bear in the wild, Cades Cove is the place to be. You may also see deer, wild turkeys, an occasional coyote, and for sure, the continuous splendor of trees.
Several years ago on a steamy summer day, it was not the wildlife that was so unforgettable. Hovering in the upper 80s, the day was far warmer than the forecast had promised. Running that hilly road around the Cove in that late July heat, I rejoiced in every bit of shade that decorated the pavement, short promised patches of coolness, moving from strength to strength.
The daunting hills seemed to rise even steeper than ever before. As I lumbered along, I was reminded of the ancient psalms of ascent that the pilgrims sang on their way up to Jerusalem. I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth. Psalm 121. 1-2
They sang through the hard stuff. When they worshiped, they were sustained and strengthened by something more. As are we.
When I run, my unhurried pace urges reluctant thoughts to the surface. Going slow sharpens my eyes to what is hidden along the way, grasping the sight of a shy doe, a red-tailed hawk soaring, or a blanket of trillium in full bloom. The mere act of running on long lonely roads dredges up prayers I would have never prayed otherwise, each pounding step shaking things up inside, and changing me a little bit more. Running is not just a physical endeavor.
I think about stuff when I run. I write stories in my head. I compose
essays. I pray differently in the fellowship of really big trees. And
sometimes I sing out loud like the pilgrims. Because in those moments,
only God can hear me.
Just halfway around the loop that afternoon, I was already dragging, my tank top saturated, glued to my skin, and sweat smearing my sun glasses. And there were many more hills ahead and miles to go before I was done.
Discouragement whispered to me like naysayers along the sidelines, stop, stop, stop, matching the rhythmic pattern of my feet and labored breathing. But I know from previous runs that to stop running on an uphill is a sure defeat. To get started again takes more than physical strength. To keep on running, I knew to keep my head down, looking only at the next step. And then the next. And occasionally, like the pilgrims, lifting my eyes to the trees surrounding me like so many sentries standing at attention on a parade route. Keep on, keep on, keep on, they urged.
I knew this familiar slope. I had run it many times before. There was indeed an end to this hill. But it was still hard. Rented jeeps, SUV's packed with kids, and Dodge Rams with beer drinkers in the back rumbled past me up the hill, over and out of sight, racing past to see the sights. Most never even noticed as they squeezed me over to the crumbling edges of the asphalt. No shoulders here, no margins. At times, I stepped into the shallow rocky ditch to accommodate the vehicles.
As I approached the top of that particular hill, running on empty, I noticed a large black SUV pulled over on the side of the narrow road. I was curious about what the driver saw, perhaps a bear lazily rambling across the road or climbing a tree, or maybe he was awestruck by the tabernacle of the forest, taking in the glory instead of rushing past the wonder of this sacred place.
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But this driver saw something entirely different.
I slowly reached the ridge, ready to pass him by, when I stopped short. His window slid down. A hand reached out holding an icy dripping bottle of water right out of a cooler. He didn't say anything. He just smiled. I did not know him. He was a stranger, as I was to him. And he had been waiting for me.
I almost cried.
He saw me struggling. And he did what he could do. Kind people live hilariously like that.
Kind hearts always look differently at the scenery around them. They see others with new eyes and a fresh heart, recognizing and responding to outward needs or inward struggles that others don’t even see.
In his devotional My Utmost for His Highest, Oswald Chambers points out: Readiness for God means that we are ready to do the tiniest little thing or the great big thing, it makes no difference.
Not out of any kind of obligation, but compelled by a hidden joy.
The kindhearted don’t contemplate if they should help, but think about how they can help. Even the smallest acts of kindness shift the tectonic plates of the universe. They may offer something to fill a momentary physical gap, come alongside to walk or run or listen, sometimes to encourage in word or deed, but always giving what is more tangible and eternal than we can ever comprehend.
And whoever gives one of these little ones even a cup of cold water because he is a disciple, truly, I say to you, he will by no means lose his reward. Matthew 10. 42
It was only a disposable bottle of water. But not in God’s sight – nor in my own present need. Instead, it manifested the profound ministry of the cup of cold water, revealed by Jesus in scripture and played out through the ages, transforming ordinary moments into extraordinary ones, full of the recognizable grace of God.
Doing something kind every day for a long time makes it really hard not to do it.
I don’t know if this man was able to observe the black bear he had driven to see in the national park. But he changed the course of my day by his selfless vision of what he did see. My cup runneth over with the compassion I was given, an act of mercy and grace, a profound and rare moment never soon forgotten.
I doubt it was the first time he stopped to help a stranger or a friend. Nor his last.
Just because he could.
Just because we can.
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