We had set off that early spring day to hike a new trail, described in the guidebook as a meandering walk through old growth trees and woven with stream crossings. The trail rose suddenly away from the road. We were strangers trespassing through the wilderness, decorated by the hand of God Himself. We trod silently on a carpeted path, so soft I wanted to take off my hiking shoes. And soon, we came upon a creek rushing down the mountainside. We picked our way across the first of eighteen streams. Large moss-covered rocks lay haphazardly in its midst like wooden blocks scattered on a playroom floor, providing a perilous bridge. Beyond the water, the trail picked up like the other side of a conversation. It was not until we were well-committed on the route, that our way was unexpectedly blocked by an enormous tree, uprooted and long-dead, hanging at a crazy angle across our way. Too wide to skirt around and too high to clamber over, we scooted underneath like children in a playground gymset. We emerged to cross more wild water and upward on the trail, undaunted by our small detour. But the straight-line winds of a winter storm had left behind even more trees fallen as if in battle, one after another. We continued to climb over, under, and through the thicket around us, not knowing anything more to do, thinking all along that this particular impenetrable tangle had to be the worst, and it would get better after the next bend or over the ridge ahead of us. After more than two hours of scrambling through what appeared to be an unmarked path through a disaster area, we reached the top of the trail. We stopped for a snack of dried fruit and to quench our thirst from bottles of water that we had brought along.
“I am glad THAT is over,” I finally said. “I didn’t know how much more of that I could take.” I leaned on my hiking poles, and stated emphatically, “I will not pass that way again.”
And then without words, my husband just looked at me, and I realized with despair that the only way back to the car was the way we came.
The way down was reliving a bad dream.
At the ranger station later that day, we notified the park officials about the condition of the trail. No one had traversed that way for many months. No one knew its need for repair.
A couple of weekends ago, under the clear blue skies of early fall, we sought a route to hike with our pregnant daughter and her husband. We needed a short route as our time was limited. We settled on a trail not too far away in order to maximize the time we had. The trail rose quickly away from the road, a secret forest, carpeted and soft. Sunlight cut sharply through the canopy of ancient trees, like a medieval vision from God. A stream wandered its way alongside. And quite suddenly in the midst of immense beauty, I realized that we had gone this way before. This was that same trail of utter despair from a few springs ago. And now, its beauty defied description, my words seemed flat and lifeless about that which was outrageous and wild, a picture of how the world was meant to be, an image of redemption, restoration and profound transformation engraved visibly before us.
And I realized in that renaissance of splendor what God can do, not just with a forest, but in my life, beyond what I can ever imagine and in deeper dimensions than I can possibly comprehend.
Therefore, if any one is in Christ,
he is a new creation,
the old has passed away,
behold, the new has come.
2 Corinthians 5.17
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