Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Dear God,

I shall never know, nor understand the supreme joy of the mountaintop without living in the valley. Valley living.

Six months after eight hours of surgery from breast cancer I hiked 50 miles of the Appalachian Trail. We eight started in the rain and spent our first four days deep in the woods, rarely seeing above the tree tops. Two women became depressed and thought of leaving. Suffering from seasonal affect (without sunlight) they felt themselves spiraling downward.

But then we came to an intersection. The blue trail or white? As we stood hovered around a map, literally an angel appeared out of nowhere and pointed us toward the blue trail rather than the well-known white trail. Following Hilary's appearance we started down the blue trail that took us into an opening of miles of rhododendron trees. Amazing pink flowers dotted the acres of ground along the trail. We oohed and aahed our way for miles. We'd never seen anything like it.

Walking through the beauty, seeing the low valleys below us, we got to see from a whole new perspective. Those valleys were beautiful, lush green forest stretching for miles. We hadn't fully appreciated the valleys while we were knee deep in them.

I've been on top of the mountain many times. Gazing upon the magnificence of life at the top, I have been able to look down at the valley, even seeing the switchbacks leading to the top. What amazing, incredible beauty.

But when I'm living in the valley, it's hard. I can't see above the tree tops. Dense, dark trees hem me in, making me feel heavy, burdened, tired. I can only barely see the light.

I'm in the valley, not such a bad place, looking for the light. I'm still on the path, headed somewhere. I haven't given up, plopping myself near a big rock, refusing to move, despairingly paralyzed. That's a good thing.

But I am feeling the effects of living in the valley. I am weary, burdened and tired. I'm feeling sad. Yet, even as I write I feel the presence of the mountain of hope ahead of me. A long ways off but there nonetheless.

It was only moments ago that the memory of the Appalachian Trail came to me. I had had a difficult recovery from my cancer surgery. Two additional minor surgeries subsequently. My body had not done well with the anesthesia. When we left for West Virginia, the entry to the trail we had chosen, I was not yet fully recovered and ten years older than the other hikers. It was a great challenge.

Hiking in the rain, crossing swollen streams, with muddy boots and drenched hair, things did look and feel pretty bleak at times. Wondering if we would ever break out into the light, we all felt the effects of walking in the valley. Slipping and sliding, risking the chance of falling over rocks and limbs, it was a test of endurance.

But when we listened to the angel who pointed out the way, embraced by the most beautiful scenery in the world, our spirits soared as we observed everything beneath us. The valley really is beautiful. And we could never have fully appreciated the beauty of the mountaintop without having walked the valley first. The burst of sunlight at the top revealing the beauty of the valley gave me cause to pause and be thankful.

And so I know what lay ahead. I'm not sure how long I will linger in the valley although I am convinced that daily life is lived here. If I can keep my eye on what is revealed in this place, then I will always notice the signs of God along the way. I will find you in the most unexpected, surprising ways. I will settle down, become content, calm, serene walking with the Master.

Wanting to be
somewhere rather
than where I am
will rob me
of the lessons learned
only in the valley.
Sometimes
I fail to remember
the value
of the valley.
Forgive me, Father.
Make me willing
to hold your hand,
to live where sometimes
things are muddy, obscure,
rainy and dreary,
threatening.
Content with you
beside me.

Love, Andrea