April Newsletter - Laura in India

"Psalm 121"
When paging through a National Geographic, gawking at the peaks and
climbers alike, I often ask myself, what do those hikers think about
while scaling the tops? What do they ponder while trekking? Surely,
being professionals they have discovered pure, mountain zen. Surely,
they have found oneness with the paths and peaks, thus never growing
weary, but gaining strength with each passing step. Surely, their
hiking thoughts are nothing like mine:
Huff. Huff. Puff.
My goodness.
Huff. Huff. Puff.
Okay. Not tired. Nope. Not tired.
Geez, Thompsen, you're breathing hard.
Nope. Don't think that. Keep going. Look at the trail. Press on.
Oh, that's good. Press on.
That's it. Watch your feet. Good, watch the trail.
Man, your feet are big.
Huff. Huff. Puff.
Big shoes, too. Big enough to hold weights.
Uff-da. It feels like they've got weights. Yep, 1000 lbs in my shoes.
Huff. Huff. Puff.
Must distract yourself. Sing a song. Watch the trail and sing a song.
"I see trees of green...Huff.
Red roses too...Huff.
Uh...I see clouds of white...Puff.
Um...What a wonderful world...Huff."
Maybe I should pick a song I know.
Huff. Huff. Puff.
Okay. Just watch your feet.
I often wonder if my hiking companions recite poems or think deep
philosophical thoughts while climbing versus huffing and puffing. I
often wonder if I'm the only one who has such a love-hate relationship
with mountain trails. I love the challenge and I love the climb; but,
I can't wait for the trail to end and I hike anticipating the next
water break. I often wonder if others also spend more time looking at
the trail than at the landscape around them.
Thus, I went into our Himalayan excursion with the slightest hope that
I had outgrown this hiking habit. Maybe this passage would be my
passage to more mature inner monologues.
Yet, while we climbed about, surrounded by some of the most majestic
peaks in the world, I could not keep my mind off my huffs and puffs,
nor my eyes off the trail. As we walked through valleys that surround
Everest, I could not keep from hoping that around the next bend we
would finally finish.
At this, I grew more and more discouraged. Why do I think this on
every hike? Why do I eagerly anticipate the trail, yet once begun, I
cannot think of anything but its completion?
We soon came to a clearing with some of the most beautiful mountain
peaks I have seen. The Himalayan range is massive. They seem to take
up the entire sky. And better yet, they seem to know their beauty, as
they stand proud, majestic and full of grandeur. Our eyes wanted to
continue staring, but the trail continued. So, we did as well.
Back to huffing and puffing, I thought. Back to the battle in my
mind. Worst of all, back to gazing at a stupid trail that looks like
all the other stupid trails I've been on. Trails are trails. But,
mountains are not just mountains; they are something more. They are
worth gazing at. They are worth keeping your eyes on. I wanted to
climb higher, but that meant keeping my eyes down, motivating my feet
to press on--a habit I've developed through the years. And the last
thing I wanted was to spend another two hours going up a mountain
without seeing a mountain.
While pondering all this, I was reminded of a Psalm; a Psalm I've read
many times this year. Psalm 121:
I lift my eyes up, unto the mountains-
Where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord,
The Maker of Heaven and Earth.
I was surrounded by mountains. I was in need of inspiration. It
seemed like Divine intervention that this Psalm came to mind. But,
instead of a spring in my step, I was just given more questions. Big
surprise.
What is it about mountains that reminds the Psalmist of God, the
creator of majesty and grandeur? What is it about creation, God's
creation, that comforts the Psalmist? It does not read 'we lift our
eyes to the Taj Mahal' or 'we lift our eyes to the forts of Rajahstan,
where does our help come from'. For, we do not turn our eyes to a
being of this world, but to a source of this world.
And, from that, I had to simply ask myself, why do I not lift my eyes?
Why had I always resorted to watching my feet, watching the trail
pass, as I walked my path? I've been told to watch where I am
stepping; that there is danger in keeping my eyes elsewhere; that I
may stumble if I do not watch closely enough. That is, I hold some
control of the journey if I watch every step. Yet, in gazing up, I
will not only be reminded of the creator of my challenge but also the
helper of that challenge. I can release my control once I have faith
in gazing at the mountains.
How much of my life have I been watching the trail instead of the
mountain? How often am I too ashamed to lift up my eyes? For in that
lifting, I admit my weakness. It is in staring at the mountains that
I am humbled. I confess that I am in need of strength, in need of
help. In taking my eyes off the trail, I find myself not knowing
where the next step may be. In taking my eyes off the trail, I trust
that the Maker of the mountains will bring me through their passes. I
trade false assurance for active dependency.
So, as the path continued, so did we. But, this time, I kept my eyes
up. I watched the clouds roll over those mighty Himalayas; I squinted
as the sun beat down; and I marveled at the snow falling around them.
And, there, I did enter a new passage of hiking. One with the same
huffing and puffing; one with more stumbles and blunders; but, one
with an incredible view.