Resigned and Inclined

Going Up

Going Down

I didn’t set out on an epic trek, not intentionally.  Feeling a bit under the weather, I figured the best way to clear my head was to take a slow stroll around my hood.  If a walk didn’t make me feel better, I reasoned I could jump in bed and have a snooze when I returned.  Leaving the house, I remember thinking to myself, “These are the wrong shoes, I should put on the brown pair.”  However, I was a full ten feet from my front door and the thought of opening it again and swapping my footwear didn’t seem worth the effort.  I told my feet not to complain and started up the street. 

Wandering aimlessly, I stared at the new greenery spring had provided.  Flowers were in full bloom and I sniffed my way down the road, stopping at every lilac bush and early rose I could find.  A pair of rabbits caught my attention and I followed them through the empty lot.  My mind has been  busy lately and the pace of my adventure was a welcome respite to the hectic month.  Walking toward a friend’s house then taking a detour to follow a family of ducks meant that by the time my feet started to hurt, I had walked much farther than I had intended. 

The noise from the gun range was loud in this cul-de-sac.  No one much noticed it though, the residents and wildlife having made peace with the noise as only longtime residents can.  I can hear the gun shots through the forest from my home, but I had wandered to the limits of the range property and the sound was much louder now.  Looking up, I cursed silently.  I really had taken myself for a walk.  A few hundred yards followed by a left turn and I would be at the bottom of a mile long hill, whose gain was about 500 ft.  Do-able, but not exactly what I had intended with a headache, crummy shoes and sleep deprived brain. 

Contemplating turning around, I realized the fastest way home was up the hill, not retreating the way I had come.  Congratulating myself sarcastically, I steeled myself at the bottom of the incline and slowly started my march up the hill.

My children will tell you that I chant when I run up hills.  I’m not repeating the chant here, but be assured it is equal parts ridiculous and annoying.  At this point in my life though, it’s automatic.  I started my little chant as I marched my chubby self up the hill, making sure I didn’t close in on the man who was ahead of me by ¼ mile. By the time my lungs started to feel the ascent, he had stopped and pulled into a small driveway.  I continued my merry song as my left foot started to criticize my inability to make solid life choices.  By the time the fellow ahead of me started his ascent again, my right foot and head were complaining.  Determined to make it halfway up the hill before I agreed with any aching body parts, I wiped a tear or two from my eyes and continued with determination.  I changed the lyrics of my chant.  Pleased with the introduction of “urban grit” into my vocabulary I continued up the hill as only a street fighter can.

When I realized my left foot had given up complaining and started to bleed in protest, I stopped again to adjust my shoe.  My companion climber had stopped again and this time I was able to recognize the face of 70ish year old man, leathery and strong, smiling kindly and clearly willing to chat.  Forcing myself to breathe steadily instead of sucking wind, I walked up and stopped to catch my breath. 

“It’s quite a climb yes?”

“It is indeed Sir, but you make it look rather easy.”

“I go this way once a week.  It keeps my legs moving.”

“Going down the hill would keep your legs moving Sir, I’m fairly certain going up this hill is either vanity or stupidity.  I know what it is in my case, you want to tell me anything…”  I smiled and he laughed.  We chatted a bit more and he let me pass.  “I’m going to rest a bit longer, this is where I slow down,” he said motioning for me to go ahead.

“Fabulous!” Was my reply, “you can call the ambulance for us both after you reach the top.”

I continued on, marching slowly but steadily, trying not to shame myself in front of the 70 something Mountain Man.  In truth I felt crummy, my head was pounding, my foot was still bleeding and my breathing shallow.  At this point in the walk I noticed two things.  The first was I could smell the gunpowder from the range now; the second was that as I strained for breath, it stung my nose and eyes a bit.  I continued my march upwards and noticed at the top of the hill was another walker coming down the steep grade. 

His step was jaunty, not surprising considering the path of the descent.  He looked fresh and matching: the kind of fellow who wears only moisture wicking clothing.  He glanced down the hill at Mountain Man and I and I caught the slightest hint of scorn in his glance.  I examined him from behind my sunglasses.  He held a water bottle affixed to a strap in his hand.  His phone was attached to an armband and his air pods were visible.  Yep.  I recognized the look scorn and pity; given by a beautiful, able bodied youth who had yet to experience any form of physical limitation.  I smiled and looked closer, a second examination of Mr. Correct Fibers lead me to believe he did indeed have on moisture wicking socks.  

I moved to the side so that he could pass.  He looked at me as though I were a form of bug and hurried by.  I couldn’t even muster up the emotion of resentment.  Resentment must require more oxygen than abject amusement.  I giggled.  I felt like hell and Mr. Correct Fibers didn’t have the presence of person to be impressed that a deranged human was climbing the hill.  Heck, even if he found me pathetic he had to be mildly impressed by Mountain Man.  But no, sadly scorn is an opiate to those who feed upon it.  It is hard to be impressed by the efforts of others when exuding effort means you have already lost.  I prayed for Mr. Correct Fibers and asked God to bless him with at least 7 children.  The smell of gun power was thick in the air and I remember wondering how those who lived on this block managed the smell.  Did they ever get angry about it? 

I did get home from my ridiculous walk eventually.  I slowed down considerably after my expedition up the incline.  When I staggered in the front door I was met with a glass of ice water, to which I added 2 tylenol and 2 ibu.  I threw myself in a shower and curled up on the couch for a snooze after that.  When I woke up, I was thinking about my adventure and those whose path I crossed.

Without a doubt the hardest part of my adventure came half way up the hill.  In truth I was too tired to continue either up or back down the hill.  However, there was no turning back.  If I was going to get home, I was going to have to walk myself there regardless of my low reserves. 

Have you ever been in a trial so intense that you came to the end of your ability to cope friend? I’ve spent some time on this road and frankly, I was disappointed Jesus didn’t send a bus to help me out.  I’ve prayed. I’ve fasted. I’ve sought the Lord.  Yet the help I hope for still has not shown up.  I’m well past calling anyone for prayer help because the situation is so complex I’m not sure I understand it.  I couldn’t tell you which way faith runs at the moment, because all I can do is groan and strain to take one more step, which brings me to Mountain Man and Mr. Correct Fibers. 

The interesting thing about my travel companions was the fact that each of us was walking the hill and each could smell the gunpowder.  However, it was those of us who were straining to get up the hill who understood the cost and pain of the climb.  Mountain Man and I could chat in fellowship.  We were both straining, doing all we could to make it up the incline.  The gunpowder stung our eyes and our breath was labored.  We could smile at each other through our pain.  Not so with Mr. Correct Fibers.  Although he could smell the gunpowder, his breathing was not labored.  He was capable, beautiful and indestructible.  He wasn’t straining, his eyes weren’t stinging and he certainly wasn’t hurting. He knew about the hill, he knew about the gunpowder but he did not know about his limitations. It was not surprising therefore, that he looked down the hill at a wheezing middle aged woman and a leathery 70 year old and saw only lack and pathos.  He didn’t know we were actually amazing superheroes, pitting our wills against a hill from hell. Mr. Correct Fibers didn’t realize he was in the presence of those who overcome despite lack.  We look like crap, but we are amazing. 

Have you ever been in a season of suffering that hangs on for longer than you wanted my friend?  Have you walked a road that lasts beyond your fears, tears, and prayers?  I would like to remind you that there are others who have walked that road.  You aren’t lost and you are not forsaken.  You are suffering and existing past your ability to endure.  This is a gift.  Though it feels like death, I promise you it is a gift.  Because unlike Mr. Correct Fibers you know your limitations and what it is to suffer, you are not foolish enough to despise the weak.  You possess the power to ascend and descend that stupid hill of lack.  You alone know how to approach someone who is out of breath and cannot go on, you are able to say,

“I’ll walk this part with you, I know how the road bends and where you can take a breath.  Soon you will smell gun powder and your eyes will sting.  Feel free to cry and clean your eyes with your tears.  Soon we will be at the top of this hill and you can be on your way again.  Take heart. Take a small step.  Take another.  Well done.  You are there.  You have done it.”

Praying for you this week,

xoxKaren