Mountain Climbing
Our view of the clouds from the summit of Haleakala
I lift my eyes toward the mountains. Where will my help come from? My help comes from the LORD, Maker of heaven and earth. Psalm 121:1
My heart is relearning childlike faith through prayer. Children trust the person from whom they seek help, and I'm coming back to the most important conversation - my conversation with God - as I scale both the big and small obstacles in my life.
I lift my eyes to the mountains
The last time I was at the base of a mountain, I couldn't see the top. Adam and I cruised side by side as we drove along the switch backs to the peak of the volcanic mountain Haleakala. It was shrouded by cloud cover and mystery, but the national park website advertised a breathtaking view of the sun dipping below the clouds and we were determined to see it for ourselves.
Breathing in the beauty of a mountain range from a distance, or scaling it with the help of a mustang's engine inspires romantic whimsy. But toss me a loaded back pack and hiking boots instead, and the reality of the work to climb to the top and the danger of falling off a cliff seems utterly terrifying. Am I really cut out for this? Is this even possible? Is the summit worth the effort? There are supplies to carry, altitude sickness to avoid, and the minor complication of my fear of heights.
There are many peaks in the mountain range on my horizon. They are all different, but none-the-less all feel impossible to scale. Some have familiar, repetitive inclines that although often travelled, make me weary. Some peaks are clouded with uncertainty. The way is hidden, and impossibly distant.
When there's so much laundry on the floor that I haphazardly climb over piles, my heart gets overwhelmed.
When the garden is overgrown with weeds and producing rotten fruit because of a beetle infestation, I want to quit.
When my calendar is filled with good and necessary things, I fear disappointing people I love by scheduling our next dinner together more than a month out.
When I lose my temper at my preschooler's repeated disobedience, I berate myself as a failure.
When a neglected notebook stares at me as if to say, "Are you really a writer?" I throw my hands up at all creative work.
When Emmi died, I didn't know how I would scale the mountain of being a mother without my daughter. Would I ever stop grieving? How would I keep going to the top of a mountain I could not begin to see?
Where does my help come from?
One of our last hurrahs of summer was taking Rose to an indoor climbing gym. This was her dream come true because she is always clambering up something - a tree, a couch, or her daddy's shoulders. This girl is a future mountain climber! Watching her grab holds and lift herself higher and higher was pure joy. She had total trust in the harness, and hollered down, "Don't catch me, Mom!" before she kicked her determined feet out and repelled down without fear of falling.
Meanwhile, my heights-hating self struggled to let go and trust the auto-belay to safely lower my weight to the ground. My heart raced, my palms sweat. Instead of repelling, I muscled myself back down the climb, hold by hold, and strained some muscles in my shoulder when my foot slipped.
I want to climb mountains like a child: trusting my Helper courageously and with joy. My heart may pound and my muscles may strain, but I can depend on Him to support me even when I'm afraid.
I want to come to God as a broken hearted child, confident he will lift me up in his arms to comfort me.
I want to come to God as a tired child, and ask him to help me clean my room.
I want to come to God as a trusting child, and delight in the safety of his hold on me.
I want to come to God, because he is my Helper.
My help comes from the LORD, Maker of heaven and earth.
I am learning more about prayer but I have by no means perfected it. My tendency is to run to other things for a little help. When I feel overwhelmed, I'm quick to grab a little boost from the sweet snacks in my pantry, tap open a shopping browser on my phone, or dive into a good story. While carbs and distraction aren't necessarily bad, they only give me a little relief.
When I weave prayer into the rhythms of my life, I train my heart to release my dependance on my own abilities to make it through another mountain on my to-do list or a difficult conversation about grief, and instead trust my cares to God.
Earlier this month, it was our family's turn to introduce ourselves to our new homeschool community. On stage. With a microphone. It wasn't fear of the spotlight that twisted the knot in my throat. I have had other opportunities to be in front of others to sing or present without trouble. This knot came from the anxiety and sadness over how to introduce our family, broken by pediatric cancer, to seats occupied by kids who share the same birth year as my daughter who's in heaven. Should I tell them about Emmi? Or leave her out? Would it be easier on the families if I didn't bring a conversation about death into a Monday morning?
I was consumed with anxious thoughts and sadness over the weekend leading up to sharing. I didn't want to overburden listeners, but I didn't want to pretend Emmi didn't exist either. I kept going back to prayer. God help me. I don't know what to say. How am I going to do this? I need you!
Sunday night, Adam and I prayed together, asking God for strength to scale the stage steps in the morning. Afterwards, Adam reminded me of a conversation about our family portraits I overheard while Rose and a new neighbor shared orange slices at our kitchen table.
Who's that baby? Is that you?
No, that's my sister Emmi. That other baby is me, with my sister all grown up.
But where is your sister?
My sister is in heaven.
But she can't be in heaven, you'll miss her.
I do miss her... Want to go play?
Monday morning came, and we packed one of the pictures from our kitchen wall into a sturdy cardboard box. I wanted to use Rose's words to introduce her sister to her new friends, even if she wasn't bold enough to share them into the microphone just yet. My voice shook, but I was able to hold the microphone and tell our story with help from the Lord.
Up, up, up
In R. A. Torrey's century-old book, How to Pray, he says, "Prayer often avails where everything else fails... Oh, the power of prayer to reach down, down, down where hope itself seems vain, and lift men and women up, up, up into fellowship with and likeness to God! It is simply wonderful!"
I look out at the horizon of my mountain range, and I remind myself to go to the Lord with my heavy load and aching feet.
Each time too much fabric is on the floor, help me care for our home with joy.
Each time I sweat with the frustration of maintenance, help me be diligent and persistent.
Each time a new opportunity arises, help me love people and prioritize well.
Each time I face a challenge with Rose, help me extend grace just as I have received grace.
Each time writing seems like an impossible dream, help me create meaningful work.
Each time grief overwhelms me, help me remember the hope and security I have in You.
Unfortunately, I still look for help in lesser places when I forget how much joy is mine in Him, and how willing He is to carry my burdens for me. A dad happily carries the load his daughter insists on bringing to the park so that she can swing freely. I hope that, day by day, I can practice unloading my heart on Him instead of settling for a temporary distraction from the weight on my back.
Remember dear friends, whether we're weary with repetitive hills, stumbling up a steep incline, or despairing at an impossible climb: our help comes from the Lord, maker of heaven and earth.
This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "With a Little Help".
