Heavy gray clouds blanketed the sky like the fluffy rolls of an oversized comforter. A cooling breeze cut through the day’s heat. My daughter bounded ahead, scrambled up rocks, and finding prime places to have her picture taken. My son lagged a few paces behind, chatting about video games and loudly wondering how far we planned on hiking.
I had packed lunch, snacks, and various fluids before church and stashed them in the car. Hiking had been on my list for weeks, and we finally had the opportunity.
I have taken my kids on many hikes, and we always have a good time. I wasn’t sure that would be the case today. My son immediately began complaining about missing time and opportunities to play games, and my patience broke.
I had snapped at him that he would not ruin the day and that I could see that the video games went away altogether. I did not handle it well.
The trail we were hiking was somewhat familiar. A couple of years earlier, we stopped at a popular overlook, noticed the trail, and walked a short distance before turning around. This time, I intended to get somewhere.
The trail we had stumbled upon was part of the long rambling Appalachian trail. We hiked up a relatively decent incline for some time before I asked a couple hiking from the opposite direction, “Is there anything specific to see coming up, or are we just going on a walk?”
“Well, a little further up ahead, there is a decent lookout. Other than that, there is a lodge about 4 miles on.” The gentleman looked me up and down, “But seeing as you have no water, I don’t expect you want to go that far.”
“No. We’re just out for a bit of a walk today.”
The trail climbed steadily up to the ridge of the mountain range. My daughter’s hand flew up, pointing, “Oh, a picture! Take a picture!”
A passing hiker kindly offered to take a picture of us together.
We paused at the spot and took in the various hues of green and yellow, quilting the rolling mountain ranges we call home.
We hadn’t gotten this far the last time we came. A little over two years ago, I was newly divorced. My world had shattered. I desperately dug my nails in and clung to what I could scrape together of life. I was depressed, fighting to function despite seizure episodes, and desperately trying to ameliorate the effects of divorce on my children.
We fled to the mountains often, seeking a break from the usual and a sense of peace. The trip inevitably reminded me of the time spent there with their mother, but the fresh air, cool breeze, and genuine smiles as they would play on rocks, dip little hands in mountain streams, and explore with wonder filled me with joy.
To this day, some of my favorite pictures and videos on my phone come from visits to the mountains.
Regardless of the storms raging in my life, forests and mountains have been a refuge and safe harbor. Trees are friendly sentries, giant guardians holding pain and chaos at bay. The wind dances wistfully among the branches spreading whispers just beyond comprehension. Squirrels industriously explore, gather, and play in a world that belongs more to them than humans.
When I stand among the trees and close my eyes, I feel like I stand near the world’s lungs, peaceful and at rest.
I look out over the folded ridges of the Appalachians, crests of emerald waves half obscured by mist and fog. My mind wanders to the many lives and worlds that hide among the trees and winding roads. I imagine the small break in trees on one mountainside is the favorite sunning spot for wildlife and woodsmen alike. I burn with curiosity to know where a half-glimpsed section of road may meander to. In my heart, I see the diverse collection of faces and people going about their lives, unaware that a canopy of leaves hides them from someone’s view.
Life surrounds us. Each person in every car, every voice behind a phone call, and every distant building is full of life. Mothers, daughters, brothers, fathers, sisters, cousins, grandparents, and best friends that smile and laugh on good days and curse and cry on bad ones. People who love and are loved.
The last time I stood on this ridge, I was running from life’s pain and chaos and thoughts of self-harm. My entire vision was caught up in a little curly-haired girl and the deeply dimpled smile of a little boy. I remember feeling tired, overwhelmed, and insecure as we turned around well before the kids were ready.
This time I sincerely wanted to keep hiking. I encouraged and urged my children on. I praised them for their progress, took in the fresh air and beauty deeply, and smiled easily.
Much of my world is still wrapped up in a little curly-haired girl and a boy with dimples, but I am no longer running away from life. I have allowed myself into the picture as well. I want my kids to remember a vibrant and present father who was a whole and interesting person in himself. I want to lead a life worth living by example, and I want to love them well.
Moreover, as I have included myself in the picture, I see others more. I wish I could know the stories and lives scattered around those mountain roads. Part of my heart breaks that there are people, loves, joys, struggles, and triumphs I will never hear. Lives that pass me by unnoticed.
Among the multitude of incredible treasures of God is His immense capacity to know, treasure, and keep every one of those lives and the totality of the people who live them in His heart. He is the great Story Keeper who coauthors and knows every twist and turn of our external and internal narrative and loves us deeply.
I pray that at least part of eternity is the opportunity to intimately know the people and the lives of those who share it with us. To share in their joys and sorrows and worship God together that He is more than enough for them all.
I stand on the same trail, in the exact geographic location, but in a very different place. I cannot help but marvel at the grace of God and whisper prayers of thanksgiving that He never gave up on one such as me.
“Daddy, I’m glad we went on this hike, and I’m sorry I complained.”
“Me too, Buddy, me too.”