I Think of Ray

It's been over half a decade now since I met him. I know only a handful of facts about him. And few pictures of that time we crossed paths remain in my mind.

My husband and I approached a camp area on a backpacking loop in the Sierras after our first day of hiking. We would spend four nights and five days making our way through the wilderness. "Welcome!" bellowed a happy, hairy, bare-bellied man who had just emerged from the river. As he dried himself off, he expressed how lucky we all were to be camping in such a beautiful area and pointed out places we could set up our tent. It was as though we were checking into a five-star resort and he was the check-in attendant. We shortly found out his name was Ray—Ray, the camp greeter, we dubbed him. Ray was jolly, grateful, and Ray adored this trail (coincidentally named Rae Lakes Loop).

I am an unlikely backpacker, the one people see, do a quick adjustment in their minds from what a typical backpacker looks like, then most often throw out a word of encouragement, "You can do it! You're almost there! Keep going!" Not super strong, not young, not REI-ad worthy. Ray looked even less like he belonged on the trail than I did. Health and fitness did not appear a priority for him, but hiking this trail was. He and his buddies, Lou and Brian, trekked the 42-mile-loop once a year.

Sometimes we would pass the threesome while they rested on the side of the trail, and sometimes they would pass us. Ray and Lou lost Brian one evening, and Brian carried their cooking equipment, so my husband heated up their food for them and they camped with us.

While Ray's Top Ramen was boiling, he told us about his grandfather, who used to lead a pack of mules over this same pass in the early 1900s. This trail held much meaning for Ray.

Glen Pass, 11,926 feet above sea level, 6,000 feet above where we started!

While we didn't hike with Ray and his buddies, per se, our trip did parallel theirs some, as we often ended up camping in the same area in the evenings. Each night Ray was the last to arrive to the campsite, while others wondered whether he would make it before nightfall. He always did.

On Day 3, we climbed Glen Pass, 11,926 feet above sea level, the most difficult part of the trail—steep, rocky, exhausting. Whatever strength one had, this ascent demanded it all and then some. Brent, Lou, and Brian were way ahead, followed by me then Ray. I didn't want to leave Ray behind so purposefully slowed my pace, once even hiking back down a ways to sit with him as he rested.

Perching ourselves on rocks alongside the trail, we sat to catch our breath. Ray reached into his left shirt pocket and pulled out a brightly colored package. "Have you ever tried these energy chews?" he asked. "They're really good," and handed me one. I savored the bright-orange chewy goodness he gave me. I don't know whether the treat had a placebo effect or the vitamins B-12 and C it contained really had their promised results, but I did receive energy to keep going after the rest and the tasty burst of deliciousness Ray shared with me.

Several breaks and refreshments later, we, with elation, reached the top of the pass, where we high-fived each other, drooled over the majestic views, and snapped photos of ourselves, each one rejoicing in the victorious moment.

It's been years since I've met Ray and his friends. Our promises to keep in touch through email fell flat. But when I'm exhausted while doing something difficult that seems beyond my own strength, I think of Ray, the value of rest and camaraderie, and that orange energy chew.

But mostly I think of Ray.

Three

Glen Pass, Kings Canyon National Park

"That river is like God's grace.  It is abundantly flowing," or, "Look how God covered the ground with pine needles.  That's like grace cushioning a fall!"  These are a couple of tiny glimpses into my mind as I hike.  In fact the trail name I've given myself is "Grace Seeker."  I am on the lookout pretty constantly for how God is revealing Himself through what He has made.  My eager mind can translate anything into something filled with meaning and spiritual application, but sometimes I find myself on inspiration overload and my heart cannot quite catch up with my head and its racing thoughts.  Imagine a tree branch so hungry for snow to land on its branches it tries to reach further into the sky to grab flakes of snow.  That is how I am by nature, especially in nature.  The tendency in me is to strive to receive and respond rather than wait on God to turn my head, to show me what He wants me to notice then let it settle in and on me.

As Brent and I prepared to backpack at Rae Lakes Loop in Kings Canyon National Park one summer, I decided to approach the time traveling through the California wilderness differently.  I sensed God nudging me to be open to letting His Spirit point out what He wanted me to notice.  There was a new trust that said, okay, God.  You show me what You want me to see; You let me know what You want me to know.  I experienced a new freedom and playfulness in choosing to leave the inspiration totally up to God.  

There were three head-turning truths He revealed to me over the four-day journey -- truths I carried with me far beyond our summer vacation, the depths of which continue to unfold in me.  He showed me these truths in some creative ways.

1)  The power of the waterfall.  I've always been inspired by the strength of what rises from creation -- mountains, flowers, trees pointing to the heavens, a person having been beaten down by illness, hardship or depression who stands once again.  But what God turned my head with when I saw and sat with a waterfall was power rushing down.  Immediately I recognized what in my life needed to see this about God and His ability, quickness and willingness to extend grace.  Someone I loved deeply had much hurt at the time, and I had become fearful and worried.   The waterfall was a display of God's rushing-down-from-above power and love pouring onto His children. I wrestled with Him a bit during my break.  "If you can reach down this powerfully, surely, surely you can reach the one for whom I am praying.  Please, God, please reach her.  Reach me.  Pour over me, dislodging the fear and doubt in my heart."

2)  The bigness of the mountain.  Inclines have always been strenuous for me, and I imagine they always will be.  Yet each time I am climbing toward a peak or a pass, I am surprised by my struggle.  Springy, shiny-faced, eager hikers in magazine pictures look nothing like how I feel while ascending.  I walk with heavy steps and an even heavier-with-condemnation heart for how strong I think I should be.  As I slogged toward Glen Pass, the highest point on Rae Lakes Loop, a thought floated by I knew I needed to hang on to:  The mountain is much bigger than I.  Of course it's hard to climb!  The word "yield" was threaded into this new thought.  Hm.  What would it be like to yield to the truth that I am way smaller than the huge mountain?  Can I rest into and accept rather than reject my own limitations?  Something in me immediately flipped.  "Big mountain, little tiny me -- of course it's difficult!"  I said to myself.  I became more able to rely on God's strength somehow by embracing my own weakness.  

Post-hike as I navigate through illness, through seemingly impossible days at work, through relationships needing healing, I remember what was revealed during the steep mountain climb.  Yes, this problem, like the mountain, is much bigger than I. Of course it's hard; of course I'm tired and in need of rest and strength.   

3)  The kindness of my husband.  On night one we arrived at our first backpacking campsite with a greeting from a bare-bellied wet man who'd just come out of the river.  His name was Roy.  Roy and his two buddies, Lou and Brian, had hiked the loop every year for decades.  His grandfather used to ride a mule over the pass in the early 1900s.  We knew much about gregarious Roy before our tent was even set up.  Our journey intersected with this team of hikers many times after this first introduction.  Roy actually hiked slower than I did, and I stayed back with him while he took many rests while approaching the trail's highest point:  Glen Pass.  Remember, this is where I'd just learned to yield to the truth that I am so much smaller than the mountain.  He introduced me to some yummy energy chews as I sat with him while he caught his breath. 

Back to the kindness of my husband.  We stood in victory at almost 12,000 feet above sea level on a narrow, high, rocky pass taking turns photographing each other in this glorious moment, when Lou took a misstep and fell onto a sharp rock, splitting his knee open. Without pause Brent came to his aid, providing water, gauze, bandages.  Ignoring the expansive view of High Sierra ridges he'd worked so hard to see, setting down his binoculars and focusing on the need of another, he with tenderness and skill attended to Lou. In this act, I saw God's kindness and eagerness to care for me.  

I love thinking back to how God let me see this part of Him in my husband's actions.  When I am hurting or praying for someone who is hurting, He often brings to mind the picture He provided which expressed so clearly His kindness.

There have been situations following that summer hike where it was clear God had gone before me and had seen what I would need to get through what lay ahead -- times I specifically needed assurance of His reaching power, times I would need to accept a difficult, way-beyond-my-abilities situation and times I needed to depend on His attentive kindness.

Five days, forty-two miles, one bear (yes, really!)
and three truths
still changing me.

Diane Mann, 2015

Treasures From the Trail, Part 8 - From Thanks to Praise

I remember not
The exact day of our hike
Nor the area in which we sat
But a boulder - some boulder
Somewhere
Beneath us
Seating us

I remember not
Whether it was Brent
Or I who said
"Let's say
What we're grateful for"

Feet dangling over the edge
Swinging as children's
No sensible rhythm
The popcorn of thanks
Began

One from me
Two from him
Pause
A burst of
Back-and-forth
Much like the beat
Of a toddler
With two drumsticks
Experimenting

Health, strength
To climb, gear
Flashlights, flame
On which to cook
Freeze-dried food
Shelter, air mattresses
Air, vibrant blue sky, luscious clouds
Trees that tell so many stories
And speechlessly preach
Of how we long to be

Unimaginable creativity of color
In the blossoms
Water that flows
That stays still
Inviting us to rest
Beside it

God, extremely good
Having ushered us
Through difficulties
Deaths, depression, illness yet
Therein rebirthing our love
And enjoyment
Of each other
And of Him
(The pain between two
Only those two can know
Likewise the miracle
Of healing and hope)

Silence
It seems we're finished
But sort of not
The time too sacred
To yet hem shut
And be done with it

"Let's sit with our thanks awhile"
I interject

Neither of us can say just when it happened
And certainly not how
For what human could contrive this?
But the thanks
Like morning mist
Lifting one particle at a time
Became rising raucous praise
Too rich for words

Like watching the
Finale of a fireworks show
We quietly witnessed
Gratitude
Transformed
To praise
Of the quietest, loudest kind

I remember not
Who
But one of us said
"Amen"
And we departed
From the rock
That hosted us
Never quite the same

This I shall always remember.

diane mann 2013

Treasures from the Trail, Part 7 - Trail Names

In the book “Wild,” a woman's recounting of her hike along the Pacific Crest Trail, I learned that through-hikers typically receive trail names, monikers given to them by others or thought of by themselves.   My friend Carla, who went on a High Sierra adventure just weeks before I did, reported back to me that she had given herself a trail name, MeadowLark!  So hiking along, I kept my mind open and searching for what my trail name would be.

John Denver in his song “Rocky Mountain High,” sings these words, “seeking grace in every step he takes.”  This song was replaying in my mind, singing in me as I ventured, helping me realize that I, too, with each step am watching for grace.  I tried a few names on for size before I adopted the name “Grace-Seeker,” not the grooviest of the names I'd conjured up, as I was hoping for something with a word about nature in it (Grace Blossom for example), but “Grace-Seeker” settled in me as the most fitting.  I felt funny about sharing my new identity with Brent, pretty certain he would find it silly for one to give oneself a trail name.  But I did inform him of my new title, which led to a really good talk between us as we made our way over a couple-mile portion of the John Muir Trail, leading us past several lakes without a climb, trails that meandered a little up, a little down and a lot across -- the way I think every trail ought to be (and life itself, for that matter)! Wildflowers of dizzying brightness and variety sprinkled the mountainsides, granting us lovely views as we conversed.

“What is grace to you?” he asked, inquiring more about my new name. 

The mist from a waterfall when I'm miserably hot, 
a flat spot in the middle of a steep climb, a splash of beautiful color from a flower that speaks life and energy into me when my eyes are weary from viewing miles of gray granite rock and dust, 
a made-for-me-boulder offering a place of rest, the sound of a rushing river in the distance growing closer with each step. Sometimes grace is found in the next breath, then the next or that couple of seconds when the right foot is holding my weight and the bottom of my left receives rest and vice versa. 

One thing is for certain: I'm always on the lookout for grace!

We talked about what that is in everyday life, where when things are difficult, I am seeking out where is God in this and anticipating what surprising way He is going to show me His goodness, sometimes in unavoidably clear ways, other times in ways that harder to discern, bringing me courage, even rest, for the journey of life. God has the universe at His disposal with ways to bless His loved ones, so the creative ways He reveals His goodness really are without limit.  

Grace is described in Scripture as being given lavishly by God.  It's God doing for me what I could not possibly do for myself -- and bestowing it gladly upon me. By golly, if it's around me in such abundance, I want to notice it, depend on it, lean into it, absorb it, to splash in it and let it change the who of me.

Brent is an awesome listener. He tuned into my heart as we walked and asked questions here and there. I can't say that we came up with an amazingly precise definition of grace, but the beauty was in our exploration and reception of it together.

“I thought of my trail name!” Brent blurted out the following day. Surprised that he had been in search of a name for himself, I was eager to know what it was. “PackMann!” he replied. We both found this to be perfectly suited to him, with "Mann" being our last name and Brent's super-hero efficiency at arranging our backpacks. He somehow finds a place for everything we thought couldn't possibly fit, and he is the one who is always helping to retrieve my belongings from my pack. On a subsequent hike, I gave him the middle name “MoonShadow,” because we went on a walk at night and he pointed out that we'd be able to see our shadows in the light of the moon. He notices things like that, causing me to be aware of them.

What unexpected joy we found in seeking out new names and sharing them with each other. The lightheartedness of it was refreshing and brought some levity to our steps.

Sounds like grace to me.

PackMann doing his thing.

Click on link below for video of Brent's insistence we use trail names on final day of hike.  Too fun.

http://youtu.be/uCRj9JKL9UM

Treasures from the Trail, Part 6 - Trail Kisses

Splash of Color

Colors evoke feelings in us.  Commonly yellow is associated with feelings of cheer; green, with envy; red, with power.  As I hike, I am nurtured, calmed and strengthened by many different colors.   For example, when I pass purple flowers, I am reminded of my royalty, how rich I am, how lavish my Father is. But sometimes my exhaustion gets all my focus and I cease to notice ways God may be trying to get my attention, to turn my head towards yet another way He longs to bless me. 

As I am weary and worn, head low-looking, trudging along, seeing only gray granite color, a surprisingly lovely color enters my periphery.  And turn my head, it does.  Whether it's an coral orangish red or a reddish orangish coral, who can say?  I cannot define it with words but concluded the feelings stirred in me when my eyes rest upon it are feelings of delight.   

I started saying to myself whenever seeing my luscious, coral-red, favorite flower color, "That's delightful,"  or, "That brings me delight."   Somewhere in my journey, I shifted from thinking about the flower and its exquisite color to expressing my feelings to God.  "You delight me," I'd utter to Him, sometimes quietly inside me, sometimes whispered gently on my exhale.

I'm told that my dad as a young boy upon seeing the moon would run into his house from wherever he was playing to give his mom a kiss.  That became his cue, his reminder to express love to his mother.  And it was his idea!  How blessed she must have been to receive that affection from her boy.  Similarly God and I developed our secret sign on this hike.  He would show me that color, to which I would respond, "You delight me."  I felt goofy at first,  presumptuous somehow that this little praise from me would even turn God's ear or matter to Him, almost like I was pretending He cared to hear from me or even was listening at all, for that matter.

But listen, He did.  We shared sweet exchanges of affection on the trail that day, as I shifted  from thinking about Creator God's works to forming a response to Him, this time with words, the three words that became precious kisses from me to Him, "You delight me."

Treasures from the Trail, Part 5 - A Word About Vanity

Morning Instant Oatmeal Feast

This whole backpacking-with-my-husband thing has been a gift on countless levels, really.  One of the treasures our times have contained is most surprising to me.  When Brent and I vacation staying in hotels, I can get caught up in what I look like.  Do I look cute? feel cute? am I cute?  Are my earrings matching (hopefully they're matching each other, but I mean are they matching my outfit)?  And I pack many shoes to wear just the right ones with each set of clothes.

He and I have discussed how backpacking is a fast in many ways:   a fast from our soft bed, running water, fresh food, appliances, icy cold drinks, electronics.  On the list goes.  For me it is also a fast, a retreat, from the need to look darling.

It's not that I haven't tried.  Sensing my desire to appear and feel more feminine on the trail, I ordered hiking skorts.   I researched to find a great price and read all 53 reviews about the item of clothing I ordered that promised to be functional and, well, frankly, adorable.  Next was the trail test, where I wore them on a local overnighter to see whether they'd make the cut to bring to our big hike in the Sierras.  Portrayed as feminine, functional, water resistant, bug proof, SPF 50 rated and great fitting,  how could this item of clothing be resisted?  However, In all 53 descriptions of how this skirt-short combination changed women's lives for the better, no one mentioned that with each step my thighs would be saying, "Pardon me, excuse me," to each other!  REI takes returns for any reason.  Reason?  Um, my thighs rubbed together?  "They didn't work for me," was my explanation to the sales associate as I slid the unwanted skorts across the counter towards her.

I share this to say that, while I still struggle some with vanity, I've experienced much freedom as well.  Farthest from my mind now is, what is Brent thinking of how I look or am I feeling pretty?  I get so bamboozled with the beauty around me, what God is doing in me and focus on the steps and the exertion, the life inside me that my eyes and attention are off of my appearance.  Early on in our trail adventures, what  became apparent to me is that much of the fun we enjoy together on these journeys is due to my not having room to pack my vanity.  I am traveling lighter!

Can anyone think of a caption for this picture?

Admittedly, I delete some pictures I see when we get home.  Sometimes I see one and let out a big, "Whoa!"  But I'm caring less.  The  bad pics don't sear their images on my mind or taunt me like they used to.  A friend was talking with me about what she was going to wear on a trip to the East Coast this fall, and she said she was feeling drawn to packing more simply and not being so caught up in what she wore.  I encouraged her and pulled out my phone and brought up these puffy-eyed photos I'm sharing,  telling her I was going to write about this subject, and she reacted with a sincerely concerned look, asking, "You're not going to show anyone those, are you?"

Well, yeah, I think I will!  Thanks for the idea.

I never realized just how self-occupied with my own looks I was until I fasted from my primping.  If my thoughts of how my own attractiveness or lack thereof are not on the front burner of my mind, there's more space to focus on enjoying my husband, together unwrapping this tremendous gift the Giver of all good things has presented to us.

Treasures from the Trail, Part 4 - The Still Waters

As we journeyed further after lunch, well-rested and revitalized, we came upon a rich-in-color lake.  If Brent and I were going to make camp before nightfall, we could not stop at every breathtaking site, so it was essential that this lovely lake be bypassed.  Walking by it, I kept glancing over my shoulder through the trees to see the rich blue-green color, to take in its still beauty.  Excitedly I yelled ahead to my husband, "Jesus is leading us beside the still waters!"   I could only snap a couple of pictures then carry the scene in my mind while the hike continued.

I reflected upon what is soul-restoring about still waters.  "He leads me beside still waters.  He restores my soul."  First, I wonder, when did I start taking so lightly how profound it is that the maker of the universe would lead me, that the One who placed each star where it belongs has a place for me, that He who led the Israelites and Moses across the Red Sea takes me by the hand and shows me the way to go?  This is no small thing, I realized, soaking in the truth that  here and now, He has led me to this place.

I know this has implications for shepherds and sheep, but I later jotted down what I noticed as Jesus walked me by the still waters.  What is the value of His doing so?  What about still waters grants me the restoration my soul so desperately needs?  Here is what I came up with that is offered to me at the waterside:

Reflection - The value and necessity of my reflecting on what God has done, to ponder what He is doing, to "see again" His showing Himself to me.

Depth - To look with Him under the surface of me beyond what is obvious.  His spirit at work deep inside me, changing me, loving me.

Color - Rich, rich blue-greens that sing of healing and beauty and life.

Serenity - I feel peaceful and quiet when I gaze on the placid waters.  My mind becomes unoccupied  with the worry that tries to reside there.

Settling - Nothing is moving nor rustling about.  Something in this gives me hope that Christ can calm my rushing heart.

Refreshment - Coolness, cleanliness, moisture of living water quenching my drenched spirit.

Responsiveness - I realize that if I were to throw a rock into this still water, an impact would be made, a rippling would occur.  I long to still my heart so that it is in a place to respond to God's initiations.  A stone thrown in a rushing river would hardly be noticed.  Where in my life is God trying to get my attention?  A still heart notices more than a frantic heart.

'Tis a profound thing to be led.

'Tis even more profound that I, a wandering, often directionless sheep, am learning to follow.

Treasures from the Trail, Part 3 - The Invitation

"Come to me, you who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest." - Jesus

"Mommy, God made this tree just for me," the words of my four-year-old daughter rang through my memory.  I could see her standing in a hollowed-out tree stump fitting perfectly within its contours. "Yes, he did, honey," I answered back, my heart happy to see her delightfully enjoying God's creation.

But now it was I lying in rather than standing in a hollowed-out tree.  Brent and I had stopped to each lunch and regain our strength next to a beautiful waterfall minutes before.  We hiked on from that place along the edge of a lake.  Shortly past lunchtime, Brent stopped again to pump and filter water from the lake, which gave me time to explore, take pictures and breathe in the wonder of this place.

An old tree trunk lay resting on the shore then extending onto the water.  Though I had already felt rejuvenated from our lunch stop, the appeal of  taking my pack off again and lying in the log was too great to resist.  I sat on the log, soaked my feet in the water while photographing my feet as they were being refreshed in the coolness.  Finding I had phone service, I snapped pictures of the scenery and texted messages with photos to my children.  I was so excited about this place of rest I'd discovered but was frantically telling everyone about it and recording it rather than actually entering into the offered rest that was before me.

Finally I turned off my phone and lay down.  Water surrounded me yet could not touch me on either side of the log that cupped my body.  I felt more quiet and peace than I had ever experienced without the help of an anesthesiologist.  I was being held.  God made this tree just for me, I echoed the sentiments of my daughter from years ago.  I suppose you could say I was taking the invitation to rest and be held personally.  The tree was there for me --  yes, for me.  I want to say that's silly and brush it off.  But what if the Creator of all that is allowed me to notice this piece of wood and let it be there right then, for me?

"Don't take things personally," we often say and have said to us.  Yet I believe there is much that we are meant to take personally, to receive as a gift within our person.  I have noticed even the most cynical take to heart  rainbows and shooting stars.  Yes, millions are viewing the same scene.  But God has something that touches us each personally as we view the colors and arc of a rainbow or the brief, gasp-inducing brightness of a star shooting across the night sky.  And we sense something that is beyond us yet speaking a message of love into us.

With an ache I long to be able to express what this time of deep rest did in the deepest parts of me.  I know I came away from there smiling at the love shown me, changed somehow,  open, with a desire to be more aware of God's invitations to me in the future.  I am surprised at how close I came to just giving the scene a thumbs-up, telling everyone about it, loving the idea of a resting log rather than actually entering into it and receiving what my Maker had carved out for me there.

Talking with some friends who had recently hiked in the same area, they mentioned they had gone by the very lake at which we stopped.  "Oh, did you see my log?" I asked, describing it to them gleefully.  They did not at all know what I was talking about, yet God had personal gifts He gave to them on their way as well.

I can sense God's delight when I think of Him watching me open His gift and respond to His invitation to soak my feet, to celebrate His beauty and to enter into the made-just-for-me reclining spot. 

I still smile to think of it.

Treasures from the Trail, Part 2 - Bearing the Burden, and The Truth About Truth

1,000-foot climb at Mile 3 - Tired Me

I wasn't too far into my hike before I felt the effects of having packed seven extra pounds of stuff beyond what I was used to carrying.  By "not too far into my hike," I mean the road was still visible where the plush, air-conditioned bus dropped us off minutes before, while we were wide-eyed with anticipation over the adventure ahead.

Some of the additional poundage could not be avoided:  a bear canister in which all food must be stored, layers of clothing, raingear, food for a five-day journey.  Maybe four pairs of socks was a bit too much, but that is where my excess ended.

In the past I'd learned of an unnecessary, even harmful addition to the weight of my pack:  the hammer of condemnation.  At times I have necessarily imagined laying a heavy hammer down on the side of the trail as I hike.  And what a lighter load I have to carry after doing so!

The hammer pounds into me who and how I'm not compared with who and how I think I ought to be.  The  messages of the hammer go something like this:

"Real hikers don't have any extra tummy bulging above their waistbelts, and they look a lot more like the people in the REI catalog than you do, firm, smooth and strong."
"If you were really amazing, you'd go a lot faster.  You'd take those big, granite steps head on rather than finding shortcuts around them."
"Your pack needs adjusting?  It's not the pack; it's you.  Your frame is wrong and twisted or this pack would fit you fine.  You are wrong."
"Uphill shouldn't be difficult.  You are just weak and lazy.  You can't do hard things."
"How dare you enjoy this time?  People in the world -- and even people you know -- are suffering."

Oh, and this one:  "Your husband wishes he were married to a truly athletic woman.  You are holding him back and are a burden to him."

(All the above messages have been hard battles, but the italicized one has brought many tears and much wrestling with God.  He won -- well, I guess we both did -- and I came out changed, like Jacob.  And, yes, like Jacob I limp.)

Even though I'd abandoned the hammer on a dusty trail in Southern California over 300 miles away,  the ugly, heavy tool tried to get me to take on its damning lies once in a while as I faintly remembered what it previously pounded into me.  The lies now passed as quickly as they popped up because I'd learned that living, moving and having my being in Christ is more fun, free and light -- and where I was made to be.

As I see me as He sees me and live under the adoring gaze of my Creator, I dance, not as if no one were watching, rather as if Someone who is bursting with love, grace and delight toward me cannot take His eyes off of me.  Sometimes I picture Jesus hiking in front of me backwards, as though we are two ice skaters.  When I start to wonder what my husband, Brent, is thinking of me (Brent has been nothing but encouraging about our hikes, so this comes from me and the hammer),   I look at Jesus, and He reminds me of what He thinks of me and feels toward me, which is what matters most.  Best of all, I begin to believe it and live in that place.

Nevertheless, this load was a heavy one, and my shoulders were carrying the brunt of it.  We stopped to adjust my straps often, which helped slightly but did not provide enough relief for me to walk without agony.  During miles two to four, when we were hiking switchbacks over a steep, rocky hillside in the heat of the day, I began to ask God to help me shift the weight to my hips, where it belonged.  He gave me the idea to relax my shoulders and allow my whole body to help carry the burden.  I physically was bracing too much.  Just like when life gets hard and I try to shoulder the responsibilities I've been given all on myself and don't ask for help, I was overwhelmed and exhausted.  I will sometimes encounter a difficult situation with the attitude that I had better brace and strive because this is a tough thing I'm about to do, when really, God is calling me to settle into the now of my life, receive it as a gift from Him, seek to know and love Him more in that place and call on Him to help me.  He has given me His presence with me and resources (in this case, the rest of my body that needed to share the load), and beckons me to use them.

I considered a phrase I had not previously pondered, "deep-seated gratitude."   We experience gratitude in our bodies in the "seat" of us, between our hips (if you sit with your gratitude for long and sense it in your body, you will see what I mean).  I am fatigued as I try to let my life rest on my own shoulders.  But as I receive with openness what is on my life's path as a gift, what I am carrying is much more manageable and even becomes enjoyable.   

I began thanking God for His Presence with me and even for the difficulty of the trail, trusting Him to strengthen me.   It is said God never gives us more than we can handle.  I find that so funny.  I believe He intentionally gives us more than we could possibly bear so we will realize our need to depend fully on Him and His offering of grace, strength and love toward us.

My ascension of the steep, switchbacked mountainside held for me new, refreshingly different messages from those of the hammer.  Brent instructed me wisely in how to approach the too-high rock steps that drained me, leaving me huffing and puffing for air (the ones I'd previously thought I had to be amazing to conquer).  "Look for intermediate steps," he encouraged, "to conserve your energy."   Hikers I met coming from the opposite direction cheered my way, "You can do it!" or "You're doing great!" or my favorite, "Very soon you will see a waterfall!"  Ah, the promise of beauty and refreshment ahead!  I absorbed the encouragement offered as a sponge and let each word and smile that came my way fuel me.  Having laid down the lies, there is space in me to receive truth.

And truth is always freeing.

Treasures from the Trail, Part 1 - What a Difference a Decade Makes

Last week my husband and I backpacked 32 miles of the John Muir Trail from Mammoth Lakes to Tuolumne Meadows over a four-day and three-night period.  Strapped to my back was 30 pounds of food, water, clothing and other necessities.  A few ounces of the weight was taken up by a small journal and a ballpoint pen with which I jotted down some of what I noticed going on around me and inside of me as I traversed the majesty of the High Sierras.

Over my next several entries, I will unpack in a sense the scrawling contained in my tiny notebook, expressing what God showed me to be true of Him and of me and how He met me in surprising ways on my journey.  Part of what I love about backpacking is how I am forced to slow down, both mind and body.  As I stop rushing, I arrive in a place where I am able to enter each moment, experiencing life one step at a time, one breath at a time, opening myself up to noticing God's presence in the world out there and in me, in here.

What I will begin with (and will, no doubt, be woven into much of what I share) is something that is becoming an essential, expanding part of me:  gratitude.

As we started on our trail, I was thinking about how I am soon to be turning 50.  Forty-nine.  I'm 49, I thought, and receiving this new gift God has given me of being able to hike with my husband.  How good is that? I smiled and thought to myself.  My mind jumped back a decade.  What was I doing ten years ago this summer, when I was 39 going on 40?  I was preparing to begin treatment for hepatitis C, with which I had recently been diagnosed, having received the disease from a blood transfusion in 1976.  Appointments with doctors, specialists, psychiatrists, calls to the insurance company, along with much prayer and questioning occupied me that summer, not knowing what lay ahead but, with what faith I could muster, entrusting the outcome to God.

The year-long treatment, which tremendously weakened my body, to my utter devastation and disappointment, failed, as did my spirits after receiving the bad news from the doctor.  The walls of the examining room closed in on me upon hearing the words, "Don't worry.  You won't have cirhossis of the liver for at least five more years."  Plunged into a deep, dark depression, frozen with fear that I would not live long, I entered a path of illness, anxiety and despair.

But that was ten years ago.  The ways in which God invited me to re-enter life, met me in my loneliest times and gave me new strength still amaze me but are subjects for another time.

Gratitude pulses through my veins as I begin my trek on the John Muir trail, aware that God Himself has given me new energy, new enthusiasm, enough that I am able to follow the desire He gave me to join my husband for this incredible adventure.

For the things He has done, I thank Him.  For Who He is, I praise Him.  For the creative ways He gifts me, I bless Him, and excitedly step foot onto the path to which He has led me.  My heart and eyes are open wide, and I am humbly grateful, ready to receive the blessings, trials and beauty of this place.

Celebration

A green balloon

Or two

A pinetree-shaped

Sugar cookie

Or a card perhaps

Yes, a card

With a mountain scene

A meadow

A bird

A meadow lark

Singing its flute song

A stone path

Peaks

Valleys

Harsh, steep trails

Scorching summer sun

Weight, pain

Flight

Rest

Humor, so much humor

Despite the agony

Because of the agony

The journey I

Observed

From a distance

An onlooking friend

Cheering

Letting her story

Change me

How do I celebrate

The beauty

The life

The victory

How do I say

My spirit

Is stirred

I smile with you

Share a meal

Together

Laugh hysterically

And weep a bit

As you paint a picture

With words

Of the path

You walked the trail

You climbed

The people

You met

With gratitude

I receive

The raingear

You lend

Knowing I too

Will need

Protection

You cannot hike

The trail

For me

A twinkle in your

Eye conveys you know

It will be hard for me

As well

I can learn much

From observing

You

But must go

Myself

Must go

Learn the lessons

Learned by those

Who dare to

Step

Where they are led

A profound wonder

It is

To be led

To follow

The desire planted

In the heart

The deepest part

Of one's being

My friend has been

So brave as to listen

To the song

To the spirit

Within who

Leads her

She now sings

In return

A song

A meadow song

A tune unmatched

In beauty

Unprecedented

In grace

Life-giving

Grace

To Carla, aka Meadowlark

With so much love

From

Diane (yet to have an aka:)