Captivated Me

captivate : v. to attract and hold the attention or interest of, as by beauty or excellence; enchant.

Category: healing

April 17, 2022

Christos Anesti.

I’m sitting on secluded Tank Beach, nestled under a rocky overhang that shields me from the hot sun. This bay offers wide-angle views of the flora and fauna along the northern and eastern regions of Saipan – where the more rugged and sparsely-populated terrain is found. It has been a blessed Resurrection Sunday, starting with an early morning rainfall which gave way to a glorious daybreak during the sunrise service at church. Worship was followed by a hearty brunch with new friends – who sweetly treated me like family – and by celebrating a couple as they chose to be baptized in the calm lagoon this precious Easter day.

I rest in reflection now after the exciting morning, and redirect my attention to the masterpiece unfolding before me in this moment. Crashing waves display both thunderous strength and also a smooth, swaying rhythm as they approach the shore. Massive storm clouds roll lazily north along the curving heights of Mount Tapochau. Palm fronds rustle softly, tickled by the breeze. Tiny hermit crabs cautiously approach my beach towel and explore my toes, crawling onto my feet with their softly clicking limbs, hauling homes made of shells that seem far too large for their bodies. Seabirds hop energetically along the tide pools lining the water, tweeting away as they search for lunch. I can’t help but marvel at how all of these aspects of creation seem to direct my soul’s gaze heavenward, toward the One who I believe put it all into motion. A great natural symphony is taking place, and after some time sitting in awe, I eventually join along in voice and in some simple ukulele strums with a song that lives close to my heart every Easter:

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found;
Was blind, but now I see.

Through many dangers, toils, and snares,
I have already come;
’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promised good to me,
His Word my hope secures;
He will my Shield and Portion be,
As long as life endures.

I am so thankful today – every day, really – for who Jesus is and what He has done. He has changed my life in ways that bring more joy than I ever knew was possible, and I will never be the same since meeting Him.

Wishing all who read this a sweet, safe, peaceful, joyful, and blessed Easter. And please, friends, let’s not forget to pray for and support our brothers and sisters in hurting parts of the world today who are enduring hardships we cannot fathom, and are doing so with immeasurable strength and hope.

Missing you all deeply, and sending love and enormous hugs from Saipan. 🤍

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April 13, 2022

Palm trees and paper clips.

What is life teaching you lately?

This is one of several questions that I’ve been reflecting on in my inner journey, especially over the last five or six years. There have been innumerable lessons in that time, born mostly of grief and pain, but ultimately giving way to joy and healing. One lesson in particular – which actually dates back to a wisdom passed on from one of my former middle school teachers – has been on my heart in this season of tropical living on Saipan.

Ms. Byram taught my 8th grade class. She was diagnosed with cancer midway through the school session, and was sadly unable to complete the year as our teacher because of the illness and the treatment it required. During one of her final days in the classroom, she ended the lesson with a message: You guys, I am still learning a lot about life. But one thing I want to try to share with you is that life is less about what happens to you and more about how you respond to it. And I want to encourage you to respond like palm trees and paper clips as you journey through.

She went on to explain:

Palm trees grow deep roots over time. Their roots are tested and deepened with any level of breeze or gust they face. From early on in their growth, this is the case. And though it may be difficult, it is good that they are tested, because when the truly high winds inevitably come, they will not stay standing without having learned first to anchor deeply into the ground. Meanwhile, above ground, these and all trees actually learn to bend with and accommodate the wind – also in order to stay upright. Many palm trees in particular have those long, curving stumps as evidence of this accommodation. Firm in the earth, a mature palm trunk is steady and immovable when typhoons rage, shaped by the unseen forces underground and the palpable ones above.

Ms. Byram’s point, in essence, was that life sends little tests and also big ones, most of which we cannot control. And to survive, to eventually thrive, we must choose to learn from each gust, great and small. To live deeply, we anchor down into our foundation – our faith and our loved ones – as the winds blow. And at the same time, we learn and bend with the gales that come above ground as we journey through life. Both this firm foundation and this flexibility are necessary in order to grow tall and strong.

Next, she held up a paper clip, noting how its purpose is to hold paper together. She told us that we each, too, had a purpose, and that life is an exciting adventure of finding that purpose. Taking one end of the paperclip, she folded it to make an S-shape. With this, she took the concept of flexibility one step further. When an external force is applied to a paper clip, if the clip is too rigid and does not have the capacity to adapt, it will snap and no longer be of any use in its purpose. Similarly, she encouraged us to stay true to who we were made to be, while also being adaptable and open to growing and evolving with the seasons, people, perspectives, and lessons that life would bring. To stay rigid and unchanging along the way, we would be liable to snap under the changes and pressures that inevitably come.

Saipan had a strong storm last night, with loud winds, heavy rains, and power outages. As I drove about the island today, I noted the palm trees standing tall – both along the road and as I set course into the jungle – and I smiled as Ms. Byram and her encouraging presence and message came to mind.

I now issue Ms. Byram’s challenge to you, friends, even as I continue working on it myself:

Let’s be palm trees and paper clips.

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March 1, 2022

Peace.

Words are hard to find this tender week. And as I lay in bed tonight, I cannot help but think about the women, men, children, families in Ukraine at this moment as they live – maybe barely survive – another day, hunkered in bunkers in an attempt to escape lethal intent. The prayers they are praying, I wish I could partner with and echo. What they must feel, what they are facing, I cannot begin to fathom.

Home is the one place you should never have to flee from. The one place in the whole world you should be able to feel safe, at ease, at peace, sheltered from any storm. A sacred ground where family gathers, memories are made, food and music and laughter are shared, and neighbors and strangers become friends. How anyone can justify threatening and destroying these spaces – bombarding and claiming a whole country, inciting fear, displacing families, massacring communities – cannot be grasped.

Abba, Father,
This week’s events, we know, You see.
We beseech you, God,
That Your perfect peace would bring calm to chaos,
That Your might and comfort would surround the mourning, the hurting, the suffering;
Counteracting how their cities are surrounded by unjust armies and tanks and explosions.
We pray that fear would be abolished,
That evil would be extinguished.
Our hearts cry out
For deliverance for the oppressed.
For rest for the weary.
For strength for those who rise up in the face of darkness,
Fighting for light.
We pray for our world’s leaders,
That they would have Your wisdom to navigate wisely
This brutal war.

And during these painful days,
As senseless brutality invades,
May we be extra intentional –
Wherever on earth we are –
To be the sunshine, to be the peace
To our neighbors,
To our loved ones,
To strangers,
To anyone in our path.
May we be extra willful
To send our support and our prayers –
In whatever form possible –
To those affected,
Near and far.
May this become,
In ever-increasing measure,
Our normal rhythm and practice
As we journey through this world,
This life.

Peace, God. Bring it all to peace.

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February 18, 2022

Joy.

You give joy,
Vibrant joy,
As bright as the sun!

You give hope,
Bravest hope,
No matter what comes.

You give peace,
Deepest peace,
In heartache and storm.

You give love,
Patient love,
Enduring and warm.

You give faith,
Ardent faith,
In the face of all fear.

You give strength,
Quiet strength,
As You walk with me here.

You give grace,
Precious grace,
That takes my breath away.

So I have trust,
Steadfast trust,
Each night and each day;

And through life –
Through its hurts,
and its cheer and its change –

I can sing
Of Your love,
And Your strength and Your grace.

And I have joy,
Vibrant joy,
As bright as the sun!

I have hope,
Bravest hope,
No matter what comes.

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January 22, 2022

Day 5: Arches National Park

The morning air today carries a unique chill, the kind that seeps easily through your layers and into your bones. But no matter! The skies are clear, the birds are singing, and it’s bound to be a beautiful day chasing arches.

I am almost late for sunrise at the Windows, a pair of arcs situated to the north and south of a single rock formation in Arches National Park. I arrive at the landing within the North Window and am greeted by three photographers – one couple from Colorado, and one solo photographer – all directing their lenses around the landscape. The arch opens to a ravine, with beautiful views of the mountains directly to the east, where the sky is beginning to glow. Our perch within the arch happens to be serving as a special form of wind tunnel, and we four are hunkered down, sharing rocky ledges to hide behind, and offering extra hand warmers to fit into our gloves. I look around, noticing a view of nearby Turret Arch with the pink, lustrous valley behind it and a distinct moon overhead.

Opposite our ledge, on the other side of the ravine, is a daring, narrow bench that a handful of other photographers have hiked over to. Their tripods are at the ready, and they too await the idyllic spotlight that will soon expose what night has shaded. Within minutes, the sun arrives joyfully over the mountains to join the party, illuminating everything it touches. I marvel, snap a photo, and marvel again, and repeat this cycle ad nauseum until I have had my fill of the beauty from this vantage point. I then hike along the ridge to the opposing side of the ravine, stepping gingerly along the slickrock so as not to fall. This perspective affords a layered view of Turret Arch at the center of the eye of the North Window. I love how looking at the same subjects from different perspectives can reveal new facets, corners, studies, and beauty. This applies, I think, not just to photography, but to life.

I retrace my steps back through the North Window and toward its sibling just south, then across the rockscape to Turret Arch where I encounter another kind couple from Colorado. We exchange photos, and I climb up into the arch to peruse its stone-walled contents and gain a higher view of the Windows. Altogether, stunning. I thank God for the sunrise and how it warms my frozen nose, then make the short hike to another remarkable arch, or rather two – Double Arch. Here, I encounter a group of photographers performing a workshop, and after a fun parlance around our mutual hobby, we go separate ways along the trail. The formation is immense, intricate, unlike any of the others I have seen so far. It reminds me of an optical illusion, like the Magic Eye books I relished when I was a child. I snap a couple of photos, then continue my tour of the park, aiming for Balanced Rock.

This landmark is a quick stop, but interesting in its totem-like appearance. The portion of greatest breadth sits atop a stony pedestal, looking almost as if it could fall at any moment. I learn that the ‘teetering giant’ and the base that it stands on are composed of different types of rock, the base being more susceptible to erosion than the boulder above. One day, the base will crumble and the boulder will tumble off!

After admiring the balancing act, I drive along the main park road to its furthest extent, the Devil’s Garden campground and trailhead. My afternoon consists of two separate hikes with multiple arches of all shapes and sizes distributed along each, explored over a period of five hours. Tunnel Arch, Pine Tree Arch, and the ever-delicate Landscape Arch all lie along the Devil’s Garden trail. Others do as well, but an angry Achilles tendon today prevents me from scrambling upward along the angled slickrock that would otherwise permit access to them. I resolve to return to this trail again in the future to complete this unforgettable loop. I then reroute and hike along the unpaved, primitive trail which showcases extensive views of the mountains and valleys surrounding and beyond the park limits. This path is less traveled compared to the one toward Landscape Arch. Microspikes are handy here, as slushing snow is cooling into ice while the breeze blows. I hike through a flat wash, hugged on all sides by the smooth, phalangeal towers at the heart of the Garden. I then begin scaling the rock formations with my best effort, and regrettably come to the end of my ankle’s ability to tolerate the upward climb, so I make my return to the trailhead to set out on the next adventure.

Broken Arch and Tapestry Arch are my closing aspirations for the day. On this winding trail, I am one of only four hiking groups out and about. I take my time, noticing the detail of the sagebrush and the twisted bark of peculiar trees as I go. Tapestry Arch is a trio of beautifully woven stone formations that lie in sequence. Broken Arch hides further along on the path and involves some light climbing and scrambling, and I am delighted to find myself alone when I arrive. An unobstructed view of the mountains serves as the backdrop to Broken Arch, known for the large crack at its apex.

The sun is casting a serene glow over the scene, and I take a few photos. I then meet an older couple, a man and woman in town from Boulder and Telluride, respectively, who ask to exchange photos. We do, and in the meantime, they challenge me to a timed jumping photo. These happen to be some of my favorite, and I accept the challenge. They are playful and fun, kids at heart, and I note that I hope to carry that same playfulness and glee in my own heart as I journey through life.

We share about our gratitude for the beautiful day and about our hometowns, then we continue toward opposite arms of the looping path. The sun is making its way toward the horizon, and its golden rays are highlighting the rocks, trees, and trails in dreamy ways. I feel nestled in peace, free to relish the present moment, and ready for whatever curves and bends lie ahead when I fly home tomorrow. And above all, I remain thankful for the people, places, and precious moments that made this week so sweet.

I backtrack along the park road, driving slowly, eyes roaming the landscape and drinking in my last sunset in Moab. Skyline Arch makes its way into view from the road, and I spend a moment marveling before I continue on. Mile after mile, gratitude grows to overflowing. I get back to my hotel, rest a final few moments in the hot tub, and wind down the evening with a tired body, but a full and hopeful heart.

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January 20, 2022

Day 3: Canyonlands and Corona Arch

A calm, peaceful morning is underway. The skies above are a clear, velvety dark navy blanket bursting with starlight as I drive the short route to Canyonlands National Park. Situated around a half-hour from Moab, Canyonlands is known to offer an inverted, carved-inward landscape that juxtaposes the upward-reaching formations at Arches. My eyes squint carefully at the empty road before me to ensure that no wildlife are crossing along the way. I feel a familiar tingle of excitement for this morning’s hike.

Amos Lee sings as I pull into the trailhead parking lot, layer multiple times over for warmth, and collect my backpack. I get out of the car and adjust my headlamp, now necessary since the car lights have extinguished. Just a sliver of creamsicle coloring has started to tint the eastern horizon, and the area is dark. An easy, short jaunt leads me to the feet of Mesa Arch.

One of the most photographed icons in Canyonlands, I am surprised to be one of only four people at the landmark this morning. We all warm ourselves, exchange introductions and origins, and keep our eyes fixed on the horizon watching for first light. Tomas, one of the gentleman at the arch, shares a story from decades ago about his one and only visit to Minnesota, when he went tubing down the Apple River with his mother and brother. Soon after we start talking, the hiking duo from Minnesota that I met in Capitol Reef yesterday arrives, and we all visit further as we await the upcoming spectacle. These interactions remind me that home is something you carry in your heart, and it can include new people and new places and new moments, no matter where life takes you.

The canyon is grey with shadow several minutes longer. I cannot wait to see its depths and details revealed when sunrise comes, but I try to photograph its edges in the meantime as the sky slowly brightens. Then, one of many miracles that occurs every day in our lives, a tiny, vibrant sunburst peeks out from over the La Sal mountain range. In the minutes that follow, the arch before us exudes an ever-increasing tangerine glow. The canyon begins to fill with daylight. I gaze. And gaze. And gaze. And cannot believe the beauty before my eyes. I remain for two hours, noticing how the sun arches across the sky, admiring how the shadows dance along deep ravines in response to the sun’s gentle leading, marveling at how a scene can be at once so simple yet so intense. The first wave of explorers has gone, and a new couple has arrived. Rafal and Stephania are a loving duo from Warsaw, Poland who delight in finding adventure together and are on a tour of national parks in between work commitments. We admire the landscape together, then they leave to journey further into the park. My final friend this morning is named Phil, an aerospace engineer decades my senior, who is adventuring the park after a recent knee replacement. He works for NASA – which is the coolest – and we exchange our fascinations with astronomy. He and I exchange photos for one another, he departs, and for a moment, I stand before this luminous scene alone.

I feel breathless, humbled, grateful. A melody rises up from my heart, and I cannot help but sing and set it free. I go and sit beneath the gleaming arch and reflect on the drop-off to canyon views directly below. The layered rocks of peach and cream and seafoam green, the fringes and edges and expansive canyons that dive into the earth, the sheer, unadulterated artistry. I meditate for a moment on what a canyon can teach us about life. Can it teach us to embrace the depths, treasure the layers, brave the shadows? To watch the horizon expectantly for daylight, even when a season feels dark, and to appreciate the stars in the meantime?

Slowly, hesitantly, I leave my post and return along the looped trail toward my car. I spend the remainder of the morning driving the scenic roads of Canyonlands, stopping at any overlook or trail I can find to stand in awe of the views, and encountering Rafal, Stephania, and Phil several times along the way. To end the morning, I pass through the Visitor Center to pay my entrance fee and find gifts for family and friends. As I leave, Phil arrives and gifts me with a NASA pin, to my great surprise and giddy delight. I thank him profusely for the gesture. My heart is full.

I leave Canyonlands midday and make the drive to a trailhead along the Lower Colorado Scenic Byway just north of Moab. This quiet, tranquil road winding in tandem with the mighty Colorado River leads me to the desired parking lot. I am so eager to begin this hike that I start for a good few minutes up a strenuous staircase before realizing I left my phone on top of my car in the parking lot. I return quickly, gather my phone, and scale the staircase once again. There is a landing at the top, and I am unsure of where to go, so I veer right to follow a beautiful train track that appears to have a trail of footsteps beside it. Rocky walls line both sides of the tracks, and I take some photos as I hike on for another 15-20 minutes. I begin to question where this leads and, grateful to have my phone, notice on Google Maps that I am not at all following a hiking trail. This is unfortunate, because there are two duos of hikers behind me who have been following me all this way! I about-face and tell both groups that if they are destined for the local arches this afternoon, we are on the wrong path. We collectively laugh and joke, and begin our return to the landing from which we ought have ventured straight over the railroad rather than making a right hand turn. How wonderful it is, I observe, that when we go the wrong direction, it is never too late to turn around. How often does this happen in life, and God in all His goodness and grace allows us to course-correct and get back on track?

I hike on happily, leap-frogging with my fellow explorers as we take photos and stop to gaze at the landscape at different intervals. The dirt path contains some light obstacles and scrambles, which eventually give way to slickrock. Jade green dashes of paint mark the trail along the rock, leading to a steep upward climb along a cable system, followed by a ladder climb up to a ledge where views of two remarkable arches come into view. I continue the hike to the left along a broad slickrock bench that curves around a ravine, noticing beautiful Bowtie Arch to my left. I pause and goggle here, then continue on to one of the largest arches in Moab, Corona Arch. A hiking couple arrives around the same time, and it turns out they are from my home state! They tarry a moment, along with one family who was already exploring the arch, then as both groups leave, I have the space to myself.

An orange ribbon against a blue sky; I love this complementary color combination. Birds sing nearby, and my heart sings with them. Once again, as before, I sit and enjoy the vista quietly, drinking in the moment. Then I take a second to introspect and ask – What can I learn and glean here, from this place? I crane my neck to follow the extent of the formation and notice how open an arch is, how flexible it appears as it bends, how strong it must be to withstand the elements of wind, rain, ice, snow that assail in any given season. I love how these qualities relate to life – When struggle or hardship come, can we learn and choose to courageously keep our hearts open, stay flexible as circumstances shift, and strengthen our faith in God and our resolve to endure?

I ready myself to return along the out-and-back trail, and as I do, I notice two fellow hiker women and one dog approaching – Tori, Bridget, and Loki. Recognizing them from the railroad track mishap, we greet each other with laughter. We visit a while, sharing observations and stories and photos, and quickly learn that we all work in healthcare. We very swiftly become friends, joined by a love for hiking, faith, and our jobs! They have just arrived to town today, and we make plans to meet for dinner at a local eatery this evening. We say farewell for now, and they go onward toward the arch while I make way down the ladder, down the cables, and toward the parking lot. I drive the short road back toward Moab and decide on a detour through Arches National Park where I watch the sunset. The sky transforms from a bright blue to a soft cerulean, the orange rocks turn grey-violet, the mountains appear lavender, and I am spellbound by the beauty.

After sunset, I swing past my hotel to change, then drive the brief mile into town for dinner. Tori, Bridget and I meet at the Trailhead Public House and Eatery for burgers and drinks, wonderful gifts after a long day of exploring. We enjoy learning about Moab from our waiter, Travis, who over time has made his way here from Alabama because of the incredible outdoor experiences that this locale has to offer. The time is precious and full of laughter, as we talk together about life, love, and other mysteries. We tentatively agree to meet at nearby Dead Horse Point State Park for sunrise tomorrow, provided no one out-sleeps their alarm.

Another day in Utah has come and gone. It was full to the brim, and my heart is full in kind. I return to my hotel, soak leisurely in the hot tub, and turn in for the night.

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January 18, 2022

Day 1: From Minneapolis to Moab.

A cheerful ‘ding’ awakens me from my light sleep, and I find myself at once excited and alert after a solid two-hour nap. I look to my left, past my seat mate, out the small window overlooking the mountains. An early morning flight brought me to Salt Lake City this morning, and gorgeous views are welcoming the plane as it makes its final descent. A hazy fog is nestled over the city such that only the snowy mountaintops are clearly visible. I’m grateful for the opportunity to get away, to embrace a week of retreat and renewal.

After deplaning, I find my way to the rental car agency, select a vehicle, and immediately set course south and east. I am headed to a place I do not know, somewhere I have never been before, and yet I feel as though I am exactly where I am meant to be. The drive is long, over three hours duration, but charged with sights unlike any that lie roadside back home. The time is filled with iconic tunes from the local classic rock station. In this midwinter season, the highways here weave among snow-peaked mountains and eventually bright red cliffs that are illuminated by sunlight, big sky views rising above. Creeks meander across the ground and give way to rivers, all frozen to a trickle and covered with a soft blanket of snow, the surface of which is dotted with tiny footprints belonging to local rabbits, deer, and the like. These scenes extend for dozens of miles as I pass through Provo, Price, and onward to my destination: Moab.

I have heard Moab described as an outdoor enthusiast’s mecca, a gem of a region that combines as many imaginable seasons and terrains as you can dream of. And as I approach, watching the ‘Welcome to Moab’ sign soar by my window, I feel my soul readying itself to step away for a time from life’s demands and sink into this all-natural atmosphere.

It is mid-afternoon, around 3 PM, and with the sun setting early these days, I have only one hike in mind today: Delicate Arch, a 52-foot tall formation hidden from road view, tucked deep within Arches National Park. I gain entry into the park, thanking the ranger at the entrance station after a ‘small-world’ moment discussing loved ones back home in the Midwest, and navigate toward Wolfe Ranch Trailhead. The winding roads through the park expose delicious views of the La Sal mountain range, the iconic red rock formations erupting from the earth, the high-desert flora and fauna at every turn. I stop multiple times, jaw agape, to photograph the landscape, and slowly but surely find my way to the trailhead. One of very few cars there, I park, hurriedly collect my daypack, don multiple warm layers, and make way. A small, abandoned homestead marks the trail’s beginning, and after a short stretch on loose dirt, I find myself angling upward along slickrock toward the serial markings that line the path. It feels incredible to move my body after spending hours seated on a plane and in the car. A bitter wind tickles my exposed nose, and I am grateful for the warmth of fleece and feather covering the rest of my body as I go.

Fellow hikers are sparse and far between today, lending to a feeling of serenity and solitude in what would otherwise – to my understanding – be a charged and busy trail if this was peak season. Interspersed, we climb and descend and climb and descend, making our way eventually along an icy, exposed ledge hidden by shade toward the end of the about 1.5 mile trail. I turn a corner toward the south and, suddenly in view, the masterpiece. The arch rises from its stage to the backdrop of the nearby mountains; shades of purple, blue and orange reflect into the clouds overhead from the sun’s spotlight; and an amphitheater of red rock stretches out at the arch’s feet where one might sit and marvel in awe as if delighting in a premier musical or opera.

Myself, and others around me, are giddy with delight at the view. Maybe ten hikers are there, spaced out across the grounds, staring in awe and trying to capture the arch in photograph in a way that does its beauty justice (which feels darn near impossible). I meet a family from Los Angeles, one trio and one couple from Colorado, a local couple who are taking photographs for their ‘baby due’ announcement, and we all celebrate this day and share insights and recommendations for the must-sees in and around Moab. Individually and collectively, we marvel at the work of art surrounding us, snap photos for each other to keepsake these memories, and laugh at how cold our fingers and toes feel. These special moments with strangers warm the heart and add to the beauty and joy of this experience; and I am grateful.

The sun continues to float toward the horizon, and the light cast over the arch shifts and changes in kind. The impressionist in me is tickled pink. I stay for around two hours, taking some time to meet the arch up close and crane my neck to appreciate its immensity, then switch on my headlamp and begin the return hike to my car as the skies dim. The views opposite the arch to the north are just as dazzling – Hills and valleys painted orange with sunlight, with a vibrant purple-orange sky overhead. I pray my hundredth ‘thank You’ to the heavens for this precious experience, and step lightly down the slickrock back toward the dirt trail.

Darkness falls quickly, and I set course for my hotel just a few miles from the park entrance, on the outskirts of downtown Moab. I check in, partake at the hotel’s restaurant, refresh in the hot tub situated outside under the stars, and reflect in gratitude on the beautiful flight and drive and hike all contained within the past twelve hours. I fall asleep faster than I can type a letter on this keyboard, humbled, thankful and excited to see what tomorrow will hold.

Locations:

Wolfe Ranch: https://www.nps.gov/places/arch-wolfe-ranch.htm

Delicate Arch: https://www.nps.gov/arch/planyourvisit/delicate-arch.htm

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January 7, 2022

Storyteller.

“I wonder if the snow loves the trees and the fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says, ‘Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.'” – Lewis Carroll

The friendliest birds are chirping outside. My eyes are still closed as I take advantage of a drowsy, restful start to the morning. Slowly, un-rushed, I let my eyelids flutter open and take in the still, tranquil forest view outside the picture window facing north. This time of year, the trees are mostly denuded of their leaves, allowing a special view of the uniquely adorned bark normally concealed beneath their deciduous fronds. The shadow of each tree inches slowly across the canvas as the sun rises to the southeast. The sky begins to brighten as I light the propane-fueled hot plate (there is no electricity here) and start to boil some water for coffee.

I am grateful for these days to retreat at a spiritual hermitage in the northland. Especially as a fresh, new year begins. Faith has been important – necessary, really – to my life’s journey for as long as I can remember. Every season, every trial, every joy I have lived through, I look back and see evidence of God’s presence, power, creativity, miracles, compassion, and faithfulness in ways that defy any earthly explanation. Reflecting on this past year is no exception. From the sweetness of seeing life-long dreams fulfilled, to losing a dear father-figure in my life, to navigating the pandemic and all its complexities, to witnessing some of the most awe-inspiring mountains and waters and aspects of creation I have ever seen, to opening my whole heart to love again after deep heartbreak in times past, He was there. And I am reminded of the chorus to a song I love, called “Storyteller”, that so often crosses my thoughts in times of reflection. The words – which, maybe just maybe, could apply to your story too – declare:

“The mountain where I climbed
The valley where I fell
You were there all along
That’s the story I’ll tell
You brought the pieces together
Made me this storyteller
Now I know it is well, it is well
That’s the story I’ll tell.”

The coffee is ready, and warms my hands and my heart in kind. I shed quiet tears of gratitude, healing, and forgiveness as my reverie continues. Over the course of an hour, I read a few chapters of a book I am enjoying, journal 2021 to a close, and lift my eyes again to the nature that beckons outside. I sip the last of my cup, layer myself three times over from head to toe, and waltz into the -15F outdoors. Step by step through a powdery layer of snow, my feet find the nearby hiking trail, and I cannot help but feel a tickle of anticipation. 2022 is here. And today is a wildly cold, beautiful day, ripe with wonder and possibility. I cannot wait to see what it brings.

Here’s to the stories we’ll tell about 2022 after another year of journeying this world. To the joys we will celebrate and the lessons we will learn. And to the God who walks with us through it all.

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April 28, 2021

Great River Bluffs State Park: When skies are grey.

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are grey. You’ll never know dear how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.”

My grandfather and superhero left for heaven yesterday, and the past couple of days have been overshadowed with grief as we cared for him on a short course of hospice. In the hours since, part of my own arsenal of coping and healing involves getting outside in nature, finding peaceful spaces to cry and wrestle and reminisce and remember grandpa joyfully. And my goodness, Great River Bluffs State Park was the perfect place to do this.

Multiple out-and-back trails radiate out from the center of this park, each ending at a lookout over the Mississippi River Valley. I start by making my way the South Overlook, where I’m met by a gentle rainfall which serves as the accompaniment to a visual array of new green leaves on the trees that line the path. The steep bluffs to my right give way to breathtaking views of the river, which reflects the grey color of the clouds above. I sit at the overlook and observe: a ladybug clinging to a leaf, the grey-blue hills in the distance, the etchings on the wood rail that guards the end of the path. I sing one of the songs grandpa used to sing so often: “You are my sunshine”.

The North Overlook is a short 0.2 mile stroll away from the south, and I go there next. This offers a different perspective of the peaceful valley, and I spend some time here as well, admiring the springtime views. The clouds look as if they are breaking a little bit, and small bursts of sunshine cut through like smiles or winks from heaven.

From here, I make my way toward King’s Bluff Overlook, the Hiking Club Trail for this park. I am led down a row of pines, through a winding woods – briefly encountering two sweet new friends named Don and Karen who are also hiking this trail along the way – and up a tilted prairie land to a bench where I sit and eat my packed lunch. Increasingly so, the sky is evolving away from the overcast disposition of the morning to one of warm, radiant sun.

I hike back to my car and then drive a short distance through the park to the eastern corner, where the campsites are. From here, there are short trails to two different lookouts – the East Overlook and the Orchard Overlook. The former is where I spend most of my time – It is here that nature really starts showing off. Blue skies are coming, but the clouds are not yet gone, and the reflections over the river are mesmerizing. Again, grandpa’s song wells up in my soul, and I sing it out loud. The birds seem to be singing along as well. Flowers reach upward toward the sky. A fishing boat chugs its way slowly down the river. Yet another favorite song of grandpa’s comes to mind: “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor. Would you be mine?”

My final trail for the day leads to the latter lookout, Orchard Overlook. The path leads south, and I notice the sun now pouring happily through the woods to my right. At trail’s end, there is a vista of rolling bluffs that are drenched in sunlight at this time of day, also coming to life with springtime. I meander here a little while, watching birds swoop through the valley, noticing the flowering trees, and enjoying the now bright blue skies.

I’m learning more and more as I hike these state and national parks, that hiking is not only incredibly fun, but God can use it for our healing. And I’m grateful for sweet spaces like this that make whatever the hiker needs in that moment – whether it be peace, adventure, solitude, healing, space, delight, or any other number of heart-deep needs – possible.

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February 4, 2021

Angel’s Landing: One Step at a Time.

What frightens you?

I woke up this morning to watch the sun rise over the mountains. The river on the east side of this idyllic bed and breakfast property in Springdale, Utah was coursing with life as the sky changed from blue to orange to yellow, and my heart filled with the anticipation of another sweet day in nature. Coffee in hand, I planned my final day of hiking in Zion National Park. As I perused the various trail options on the park map, I had every active intention of avoiding Angel’s Landing, the one hike that struck the strongest chord of fear in my body. I’ll do two or three lighter treks today, I thought. In my heart of hearts, I admit to myself that I have doubts about if I’d be physically or emotionally able to complete a hike like the Angel. As I continue to make a tentative itinerary for the day, though, curiosity beckons. I fill my pack with water, food, and my emergency kit, then hop in the car for the short drive toward the park.

On the way, I quickly visit the local gear company to return the dry suit I had rented to hike the Narrows yesterday. As I visit with the man helping me with the gear, I casually ask him what he thinks of Angel’s Landing. “What do you know about exposure in hiking and climbing?”, he asks. I share my simpleton understanding – that it’s when you have a lot of air around you and the potential for a steep fall. He validates that response and expands on it, noting that many of the hikes and summits in this striking park (and elsewhere, for that matter) are more taxing psychologically than physically. He shares that Angel’s Landing is one of them, largely because of the exposure. You do have a lot of air around you, you have sharp drop-offs on either side of you, and the fear of mis-stepping or falling or any number of dangerous outcomes can overpower the focus it takes to simply take the next step in front of you. “If you can navigate the fear, and have the physical capacity, you can complete the hike for sure.”

I thank the man for his explanation, then leap back into my car as curiosity grows still further. Maybe I’ll just go see if there is a parking spot at the trailhead, I think. I don’t actually have to hike it; I just want to see. Hoping that maybe the parking area – which serves as one point from which multiple trails radiate – might be full, I approach it and notice one final space available, situated as close to the trailhead as can be. I pull in, turn the car off, and get out of the car, gazing at the face of the beautiful rock formation, and I get nauseated with fear at the thought of trying to climb it. Fascination and awe lead me on, and I feel drawn to the challenge. Surprising myself, I start up the trail toward the first switchbacks, enjoying the views of the aqua Virgin River as it weaves through the canyon with towers of layered rock hugging it on either side.

We are not strangers to fear. We all experience it in one way or another. In some ways, fear is a survival mechanism, a sort of panic-button that our body activates when it feels it is in danger. It heightens your awareness to the situation in front of you. If you see a bear, you want your sympathetic nervous system to awaken; you want to be aware and prepare for what to do next. If you hike to 1,500 feet of elevation along the spine of a wild cliff, you want to be aware of the tree roots and slanted rocks that line your path and to navigate them accordingly. Responding to fear from a healthy, regulated, compassionate place allows us to respect the gravity of a situation, leverage the fear and awe that accompany that situation, and make sound decisions under duress.

On the other hand, there are triggers and traumatic experiences in our lives that can become so engrained, so codified into our nervous system’s fear response that our body reacts with paralysis, anger, hypervigilance, or other secondary reactions. We freeze, our feet glued to the ground, unwilling and unable to move forward, move backward, or move at all. We get caught in reinforced, hard-wired, fearful loops. And so often, it is not our fault. Situations and histories of abuse, abandonment, loss, grief, and other trauma – if we don’t learn how to move through them well – can render us stuck.

In these stuck places, we might shame or criticize ourselves for being afraid, or shun the fear, or try to convince and rationalize our way out of it. We might take onto our own shoulders the shame that others pass to us when they find our fear and trauma to be inconvenient. We might train ourselves to think or dream small so as not to offend others or get our hopes up (in case we fail). If we’re not careful, it can be easier to give our precious attention to the risks and reasons not to do something, rather than balancing our perspective with the benefits. And in the end, in choosing any of these avenues, we dampen, stagnate, and wither rather than grow and flourish.

I follow the paved portion of the path, reflecting on fear. Curiously, I ask myself: What frightens you right now? I give myself an honest answer: Heights, falling, failing…exposure. At a certain point along this trail, much higher up in elevation than where I am right now, there will be stretches where I am completely exposed to the elements – every gust of wind, every loose rock or root ready to trip me if I step the wrong way – and there will be nothing to catch me. I am dizzy with vertigo as I hike another switchback, and I pause to let my body adjust to the height.

How do we move through our fear? I think back to a season in my life that was wrought with fear. A season of that left me feeling on-edge, unsafe, uncertain about the future, and camped out in tension. A season that exposed the cumulative trauma that has taken place in my lifetime, and the ways I’d avoided addressing those painful memories and the fears that grew from them. A completely different scenario, with so many parallels to this hike in front of me. I question again, how do we move through our fear? One step at a time.

Step one, acknowledge the fear, the trauma, whatever it might be. Don’t suppress it, don’t shame it, don’t judge it. Validate and allow it. Learn to sit with it, curious and compassionate, and let your body adjust to it before taking the next step forward.

Step two, in my own story, was to lift it up in prayer to God’s hands and allow Him to heal the triggers and memories at the root of every fear. This was the hardest work I’ve ever had to do in my life, even more so than working through medical school and residency. But little by little, healing and peace came, and my hike through life became more steady and sure-footed along the way.

Step three, desensitization and disconfirming experiences. From the new, healed path, allow exposures to the things and people that used to frighten you. Little by little, you will see that you are strong enough to confront them well, gently, healthfully. Pursue opportunities that prove the opposite of your fear. If you were told you’re not worthy of love, read what God says about His love for you in Scripture, and be with the people He’s placed in your life who do show you your worth. If you were afraid you couldn’t do X, Y, or Z – try, and be willing to learn from the attempt even if it doesn’t go well. If you are afraid of heights, find a trail that is just a few feet higher than the last one you hiked, and go from there. This is brave and difficult work; it is an evolution that takes a lifetime to grow through. But our hearts and lives come awake before our eyes if we stay patient, committed, and compassionate toward the process.

I realize that the same goes for today, and I start training my mind for the upcoming exposure. I think back on other exposure-laden hikes I have done in the past, and I realize I am prepared for today. I set my aim for the next rock along the path or the next crack in the trail, and once I get there, I choose another one to step towards. Up the many switchbacks I go, weaving and pausing, weaving and pausing, giving myself needed moments to acclimate to the height and the increasingly steep drop-offs. At the same time, I soak in the vastness of the rock formations before me, the canyon below me, the sunny blue sky above me. One stretch of trail faces a beautiful, bright canyon, and I pause to admire the view, allowing myself to look down to the floor of the canyon which I now stand rather high above. Then, carefully, I pick my next target on the trail and keep going.

And as I go, I find myself not only marveling at the views but welcoming the fear that comes with them. Inviting it, but not submitting to it, not allowing fear to overpower my focus. Enjoying and delighting in the process. Because every step I take is proof that I can move beyond the fear rather than be hindered by it. My body shakes at times, and I respond to the trembling with pause and compassion, not shame or reproach. It’s okay to be afraid. We can turn around if we need to or if we do not feel safe. Our worth is not contingent on finishing this hike. Let’s pause here, and there, and here, and just get used to this. You’re doing great! What in the past for me has tended to sound like more critical, militant, and tactical messaging is now lathered with grace and kindness. And that feels so much more healthy. And somehow, fear has become my ally.

I approach Scout’s Landing, where the more intense climbing begins. A single thick chain lines the narrow 1/2-mile of trail that remains, tickling the spine of the rock formation, with some intervening lapses in the continuity of the chain. One. Step. At. A. Time. I climb, I crawl, and sometimes I slip and slide and wiggle my way along. I cast all pride and dignity aside, more focused on safety than on doing this gracefully, and I giggle playfully with other hikers who are doing the same. Very few fellow hikers trek here today, and the ones that do are equally cautious, encouraging, and kind (though admittedly, some look way more comfortable than others, and I watch in awe at how easily some move over the path). One group of climbers from my home state of Minnesota are here climbing together, and we laugh at finding out that we are practically neighbors. With an approximate scramble upward of around 500 feet in elevation, gripping handholds and footholds in the rock, the path gives way to a broad landing with panoramic views of the valley below and the mountains surrounding it. Somehow, I am here. In a place where I never thought I’d be – In fact, in a place where I told myself I wouldn’t or couldn’t possibly go.

This vista is unparalleled. My eyes fill with tears and I am left breathless by the colors and peaks and valleys and shadows filling the landscape in front of me. And as my mind fills up with mental photos, my heart fills up with peace and awe and wonder. I sit and enjoy some packed snacks, visit with two couples also enjoying the cliff today, and lift prayers and praise from the summit where lore tells that angels land. I wish there was a way to stay here forever. The other hikers agree.

After quality time with these views, it is time to make the descent. I slowly climb down, happily, steadily, refreshed, encountering multiple kind faces and impressive vistas along the way. Grateful for the last four hours of reflection, exertion, and learning, I make my way toward my final hike for the day at Watchman Trail. The sun is slowly falling to the horizon line, and it is fixing to be a beauty of a sunset.

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