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 thatthey 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 lessonsthat 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:
May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face; the rains fall soft upon your fields, and until we meet again, May God hold you in the palm of His hand.
I am seated right now in a cozy corner of my favorite Hamline-Midway coffee shop. The bright spring sunshine filters in through a full wall of windows. A pair of friends are situated at the table beside me enthralled in conversation about European furniture. Ben Howard is softly serenading the shop with his thoughtful melody ‘Old Pine’. A refreshing mint chocolate chip cupcake with green and gold sprinkles (it is St. Patrick’s Day, after all) tickles my tastebuds. A bold, rich coffee brew is warm on my tongue. And soft, grateful tears are cool on my cheeks as I take a moment to pause, reflect, and process the past few days, weeks, months.
I have abided in this room countless times since I moved to the neighborhood in 2018. A brief drive or a slightly lengthier walk from my home, I often came here to think, journal, visit with friends, or read – Today, my aim is no different. But, in many ways, it feels very different. Because this time, I have no concept of when I will have the opportunity to come back.
2022 to date has been an extended farewell, the longest ‘Minnesota goodbye’ that I personally have ever said.
In three days, I will bid adieu to the house that has been my hygge-haven for four deep and sweet years. Heartbreak has roamed the halls, and so has healing. The walls have heard laughter and crying; the windows have witnessed abuse, restoration, and ultimately miraculous joy and safety and peace. Packing and moving these past several weeks has been an immense but liberating process, as I sifted through and donated or sold clothing and furniture and other items best suited for others. I reviewed collections of keepsakes, ticket stubs, greeting cards, journals, and more dating back to my elementary years, taking a hilarious trip down Memory Lane. I repackaged a few while releasing others, experiencing ever-increasing levity with each letting-go. And as I physically renovated my environment, I felt God gently probing and renovating my own heart, calling me into deeper trust in Him. I was reminded of how Jesus offers to exchange any heaviness we carry for His perfect peace; how we are charged to cast aside anything that weighs us down or would cause us to stumble so we can navigate life with light and hopeful hearts; how He delights in doing ‘a new thing’, making streams in the desert and ways in the wilderness. My heart is always encouraged, jubilant at the thought of this!
Then, in six days, I board a plane to start the next volume of this journey. My heart’s passions are people, Pediatrics, art, cultures, language, nature, wellness, joy, and prayer. My heart’s desire is to love God and others extravagantly; steward whatever time or treasure or talent I am given in this life wisely and well and for the good; and learn and grow as God’s daughter, as a woman, physician, relative, and friend along the way. In the coming season, I am grateful for the opportunity to keep practicing all of these things in Saipan, an island gem nestled in a region of Micronesia called the Northern Mariana Islands. This archipelago – composed of limestone and volcano – has a rich and complex cultural, geographic and historical landscape that I cannot wait to learn more about. But until then, I am savoring each moment here in the Midwest, among the people and places that will always come to mind when I think of home, no matter where on earth the next months and years lead.
And so, grief and gratitude and excitement all coexist in this moment, tied together by peace. Releasing what is behind, grabbing hold of what is to come. Leaving the familiar for the uncharted. Turning away from the past, but bringing the lessons with me to the present and stepping forward into something brand new – a blank canvas ready to come to life, a block of clay waiting to be molded and shaped. Not knowing (and not needing to know) what the finished product will be, but simply delighting in the process, seizing each precious moment, and living each day to the fullest.
And as this season’s farewells with family and close friends have unfolded, what a treasure and a privilege each has been. I am humbled and awestruck – How blessed I feel to journey through life with such loving, golden-hearted people. How sweet that technology can bridge the gap “until we meet again”.
And as I step forward into what is to be – Saipan and, thereafter, God only knows – my soul says an open and whole-hearted céad míle fáilte (Irish for “hundred thousand welcomes”) to any direction He would take me, any new friends and experiences and lessons that await me, any joy or trial that lies ahead.
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.
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.
“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.
“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.
“We are alive, our skin is leaving these bones. Fire in the wind, we’re burning out of control. We are the children chasing wondrous thrills; chasing a vision, baby, like we’re running downhill.” – Needtobreathe
A familiar tone begins to sing me into consciousness, coaxing me awake after a four-hour nap. I look at my phone. 4:30 AM.
I had landed in Phoenix just six hours prior, with a skeleton of a plan for the week and a “what the heck am I doing here?“. I was able to quickly collect my baggage, find my way to the car rental shuttle bus, weave through the short car rental line, and hone in on a cute black 2019 Mitsubishi Eclipse. I then set course toward the budget-friendly Airbnb that I’d reserved a week earlier when I first decided to take this trip. After finding the guest house – (thank you, map apps) – I fell asleep faster than a lightning strike. And now it is time to wake up if I would like to get where I am going in good time. Breakfast is quick – a bagel slathered with honey cinnamon cream cheese and a clementine. I heat up some water in the microwave and add a packet of instant coffee that I brought from home, then load up the car.
I know what I’m going to. As in, I know the name of the landmark. But I don’t actually know where I am going. I have never been to Arizona before; I’ve only ever dreamed of it and heard rave reviews. So when I had margin to plan a weeklong healing retreat, ahead of a knee surgery that I was to undergo two weeks later, the Southwest was an exciting choice.
I plug in my destination – Cathedral Rock – and follow the route like a recipe. The air is warm, much warmer than the Minnesota breeze I left behind to come here, and the drive is smooth; highways, mostly. I drive for two hours, and as I take a couple of turns from the highway, the dark sky slowly starts to lighten, casting a pastel glow over a collection of towering structures not able to be seen before. I am arriving in Sedona.
I continue driving, and the structures only grow taller, the sky only grows more golden. Day breaks, and the sights are breathtaking. I clutch one hand to my heart and breathe: Is this even real?
A few more turns and some long scenic roads, and I am at the trailhead. The main parking lot is already full, but there is one spot remaining in the alternative lot just down the road. For how many cars are here, I see so few people; perhaps one of the underrated benefits of having such ample recreation space to spread out safely (especially with the pandemic) and drink in nature.
I fumble awkwardly and enthusiastically out of the car, eyes fixed on the scene and the trail before me, and lace up my hiking boots. It looks graded, then steep. Above all, it looks beyond beautiful. I have never seen anything like this before. I start climbing.
Stories of both heartbreak and resilience are rampant these days. It has been a long year for everyone. If I am honest, it has felt like a long three or more years. (I am sure I am not the only one who feels this way.) Beautiful in many ways – marrying who I thought I would spend my life with, beginning work in the field I have longed to practice in since I was a little girl, and beginning a healing journey that I never knew I needed. But long and hard and painful in other ways – finally confronting unresolved trauma from the past that I did not realize I had been carrying, unwittingly entering a story of domestic trauma which also needed healing, and acknowledging an emerging global pandemic and deep community grief.
Step. Step. Step. What the heck am I doing here? I look up, again in awe, awakened from my thoughts and centered on the moment. I encounter a twosome of friends who had road-tripped from Orange County, California. Together, we approach the segment of trail that increases from an approximate 20-degree steep to about 70 degrees. We laugh at how uneasy it feels to scramble upward over these rocks, however short the steep section is, but we make it and celebrate the triumph. Little victories are always worth celebrating.
We part ways along the trail and I keep climbing. It looks like around half of the hike upward remains. I pause on an overlook and turn around, to get a sense of how much trail lies behind me. I breathe deeply. The sun rises warmly over Sedona, lighting up its towers in a bright orange-gold. The blue sky contrasts in stunning fashion with the rocky columns. Greens look greener. Cactus spikes are well-defined. Cacti! We certainly don’t have these in Minnesota! I see my car in the trailhead lot, a speck. I feel content, at peace, alive.
The climb again steepens, the boulders and trees are leverage to stabilize my footwork. I am grateful they are there. A support system is a blessed gift. Huffing and puffing, I continue to scale, eyes on the ground in front of me so as not to misstep, and suddenly, the land beneath me evens out and I look up. My jaw drops, and I can barely breathe.
Eastward views from Cathedral Rock.
Before and behind me, extending seemingly beyond the horizon, a ground of dark green foliage blended with sands and structures of bright, rusted orange goes on for miles to meet a cerulean sky. On my left and on my right rise the rocky castles that seemed so far away when I observed them from the trailhead. A wedding ceremony with bride, groom, and four witnesses is unfolding to my left. Marriage is so beautiful. Unity. Tender promises.Two wildly unique hearts determined to join and adventure through life together – highs and lows, fun and tears.Learning to make harmony out of your differences. Learning forgiveness and intimacy and grace.
I am reminded that love is a freeing partnership between two beautifully different people. That forgiveness is necessary and exceedingly liberating, even in the absence of an apology. These principles used to come with tears of grief daily, but not anymore as healing has come. Now, I cherish them as simple truths and important lessons. Nuances of love to carry forward.
I stand in awe. Heart overflowing for this newlywed couple and the exciting journey ahead for them; heart beating wildly at the thought of what beauty the future will hold; heart grateful to God for His faithfulness and for His hand in the creation stretching out all around me. Tears fall, and I smile. Life is rich and so beautiful, albeit unpredictable and incomprehensible at times.
I take photos of the scenery, and a kind stranger offers to take photos for me on my phone. “I’ve traveled alone before; it’s nice to have photos of yourself in places like this.” I thank him, and he encourages me to walk along a path to the endpoint of a cliff for a wide view of the landscape. Not something I would normally do, especially with a bad knee and with historically unsteady footing the closer I get to any edge. But at the same time, I am here, and here I am. I walk to the edge, heart beating faster as I do, Lady Gaga’s Edge of Glory playing in my mind, and suddenly I am there. At the edge. I breathe. I smile. Little victories.
Sunrise at Cathedral Rock. Sedona, AZ.
I visit a while longer with the stranger and the two friends I had met earlier in the morning. I make my way down the trail, a few more stops for mental and photographic landscapes along the way. Midway down, I hear a loud cheer from above, signaling the end of the wedding ceremony. I smile, and a joyful tear falls. Grateful to be here; grateful to be party to this place and this moment. I finish the hike, taking one last look at the surroundings, and load into the car once again.
My final destination today is Grand Canyon National Park, but I have no set itinerary. I drive, unrushed, and take in the views along the wondrous Oak Creek Canyon and Coconino National Forest. Sedona and its environs appear every bit as charming and magical as I’ve heard them described, and then some, as if venturing through a modern country western movie. I stop at an overlook after driving switchbacks up the canyon-side, and I am met with the kinds of wind gusts that tousle the hair and cause you to pull your jacket in a little bit closer. A beautiful day, with rolling hills and treetops for days. Nature heals.
Lookout over Oak Creek Canyon.
The drive continues, and I make my way to the entrance of Grand Canyon National Park. Tom Petty, Queen, and Needtobreathe’s Alive are my soundtrack for the final stretch. I park at the Market, walk the short distance to the iconic Mather Point, and as I approach, I once again find myself short of breath. Not because of the altitude, at least not entirely. More so because of the carpet of layers and edges and shadows and highlights that ripple out before me like a real-life painting. The vastness is terrifying and awe-inspiring and more than beautiful, all at once. Clouds float daintily overhead, and the juxtaposition with the rugged canyon is striking. How is this real? I gaze, lost in the scene, delighting in how unbelievable this natural masterpiece is.
Looking at the time, I discover I have about 4 hours until I can check in to the hotel. Shuttle buses run like clockwork east and west from the Market to impactful viewpoints along the South Rim of the canyon, and I choose one heading eastward to the South Kaibab Trailhead, ready and excited to explore in closer detail.
South Kaibab Trail is a pathway from the rim to the river, with various beautiful rest points along the way. I start down the trail and find that the same gusting wind that met me at Oak Creek Canyon is present along the trail in kind. Cliffside switchbacks continue seemingly for days, and the views both frighten and astound. On one side, rocky neighbors loom vertically overhead, while on the other side, a steep drop-off descends from the edge of the trail. The Grand-ness is not subtle. Back and forth I weave until I reach Ooh-Aah Point, where the gusts of wind are so strong we hikers have to crouch to lower our center of gravity and remain steady on trail. One school-aged boy on the trail ducks all the way to the ground until the gusts ease. A fellow hiker notes that this is the worst of the wind, that it will get better further down-trail. The set of two hikers I encounter next – one of whom is braving the trail as rehabilitation on a prosthetic limb (can you say inspiring and amazing) – attest that the wind actually gets worse as you go. I continue on and, meeting a fresh new wind gust, brace myself against the solid side of the trail just as a mule train turns the corner ahead of me, ascending. They pass and I watch in awe as the wranglers lead the train with steady grace, despite the wind, despite the sheer cliff they ride along. They are practiced, assured, impressive. Strong winds make for skilled sailors. I continue on a new stretch of trail, exposed to gusts from all sides and with steep drop-offs to my left and my right. I check in with my energy level and my knees – This is my limit for today. This is where I turn around.
I climb the way I came, my steps more sure with each familiar inch of trail I retrace, and the views leading upward are every bit as spectacular as those on the descent. My fear begins to subside as a simple, deep respect for this very Grand Canyon grows. I reach the trailhead once again. At the same moment, a man completes his 10-mile out-and-back from the same trailhead – People are amazing in their strength and resilience of mind, heart and body.
I shuttle back to my car and am now due to check in. I drive the short way to Maswik Lodge, my rest-place for the next four nights. Charming, simple, cozy, and again friendly on the budget, the rustic units are organized motel-style and only a 2-3 minute walk from the South Rim. I find my unit – a second-floor space with a small, sweet balcony overlooking old pines and a railroad – bundle up anew, and route toward Shoshone Point Trailhead. It’s almost time for sunset.
I reach the quiet trailhead, where only two other cars are parked. The trail courses flatly through a quiet woods. The sun tickles the path between the shadows of the trees, and I am alone. Content. I cannot believe I get to be here. I have never taken a trip like this before. I have taken 2- to 3-day excursions on my own, but never a week. Today felt like an entire week in and of itself, and I am pleasantly exhausted. I still don’t quite know what I am doing here. But it feels right. I feel present, centered, whole, joyful. Like a giddy child who believes once again that anything is possible.
We lose our wonder sometimes, don’t we? We lose our faculties to dream and play and be light and wild. Something truly heartbreaking happens, or we are betrayed, or we are judged and told that we should be ashamed of our hearts. We entrust our story to someone, and they mistreat or manipulate it. Maybe we absorb the message that we are unworthy of love. Maybe it confirms a fear that we’ve carried with us much longer than we realize. And with each blow, our hearts grow progressively more numb. We start to live from a place of fear rather than faith, hypervigilant against anything that has the potential to hurt us more. The past two years for me have been a slow breaking open, an undoing of this process of succumbing to trauma. A regaining of that childlike wonder, of the belief that God works everything – even the most painful, rejection-packed, grief-filled, difficult circumstances we encounter – together for our good and His glory. I watch the sunset from Shoshone Point, meeting three precious people along the way who are doing the same, and I take a moment to celebrate wonder. The wonder of this canyon. The wonder of healing. The wonder of this journey. Little victories.
When we are deeply hurt, we can choose to tend to that hurt as if it is a fertile soil for forgiveness or we can stake it as a battlefield for bitterness.
Someone may have contributed greatly to your hurting heart. I am so sorry, friend. I want you to know that I am with you & God sees you. There is no excusing the fact that you are suffering. Hurt is real, brutal, and raw. And yet, I want to challenge you with an idea: that you, and you alone, are responsible for your response to that hurt. Your offender is not to blame for your bitterness, if bitterness is the response you choose. Just as they are not responsible for you offering forgiveness, if forgiveness is what you choose.
I have spent time in both camps. I have spent months steeped in my hurt, seeing life through the teeny, limited keyhole of my pain, blinded to the bitterness that was taking root within. Until that root was revealed, I spent many days confused, afraid, angry, and unable to understand why I was feeling so persistently heavy-hearted despite being in a season of life that looked beautiful on-paper. There was active hurt being inflicted on my heart throughout, but my responses to that hurt were out of proportion to the offenses, I inflicted deep hurt through my reactions to new and old pains, and I could not understand why. What an agonizing place to be! If you are in a similar place, friends, that is okay. There is no shame or condemnation. I just want to share with you: there is hope.
Blessedly, once the deeper root of unforgiveness was revealed in my life, God so sweetly and quickly helped me take care of it. It was not an easy journey. It meant confronting my hurt on a deeper level than I was aware existed, and it meant understanding that things would get more painful before they got better. But through wise counsel from dear friends from church; a paradigm-shifting book recommended to me about releasing offense (“Total Forgiveness” by R. T. Kendall); and many hours of tears and prayers and bringing my hurt and brokenness to the Lord, I am learning more about grace, healing, and love than I could ever see before when my vision was limited by pain. The journey is ongoing, and I am finding that this is a road that is ripe with lessons, richness, and loveliness. We can cultivate a lifestyle of forgiveness, friends; and in doing so, we can experience renewal in deep and indescribable ways.
Friend, wherever you are in your journey, I want to encourage you, choose forgiveness. It’s the harder of the two choices, to be sure. It requires a humbling knowledge of how much God has forgiven us for, to the point that we can’t help but to extend that forgiveness to others. It means that the person who hurt us may never understand the depth of the pain they caused; they might not even care that they have our forgiveness. It means letting go of the false sense of control that bitterness offers and letting our heart be soft. But friend, that soft place, that’s where God’s healing and lasting work truly begins. What forgiveness does is it FREES YOU. It lightens your load, refreshes your heart, and places the situation in God’s capable hands. It breaks chains that hold you captive to the past and torture you in the form of hurtful memories played on repeat in your mind. Forgiveness allows you to move forward with peace in your heart, hope in your eyes, pep in your step, and grace in your words and actions. And the more you choose it, the more it is woven into your lifestyle, the more peace & hope & pep & grace you can scatter around like confetti to the people around you.
Your offender may never understand the implications of your forgiveness for them. But nonetheless, it will be a liberating gift to you. God has already offered us the gift of forgiveness in far greater a measure than we could ever deserve. What right have we to withhold that gift from others?
Choose freedom, friends. Forgive.
Ephesians 4:31-32 💛
Real talk. I was walking down a set of stairs at work last night looking at my phone, missed a step, toppled down, and landed terribly wrong on this poor foot. Funny in retrospect! But painful enough that I passed out at the time. Blessedly, no surgery is required. But even bearing weight on this thing right now brings tears.
What is amazing is how God sent angels in disguise to get me to the help I needed after the injury. Two lovely women who found a wheelchair nearby. Two orthopedic residents at the bottom of the staircase who were at the ready if it turned out there was an overt fracture. An ER team who could not have been any more kind. A radiology tech with the sweetest presence. My mom (who had randomly put a pair of crutches in her car that morning) and dear friend Mimi who were only minutes away in Minneapolis when I let them know about the injury and who got me settled in at home at the end of the night. Blessings, each one.
How often do we get distracted in the midst of life’s craziness, only to misstep and find ourselves in a position that we didn’t anticipate? How often do abrupt hurts come into our life, causing a pain that makes us want a period of amnesia to forget the inciting event(s)? I’d argue, these things happen more frequently than we’d like to admit. But we are so good at pushing through and covering our messes and hurts with work, busy-ness, and frivolous things.
How often does God show up in those moments? I’d argue, always. He sets the right people and parts in motion to take care of us. He sends the support we need by moving the hearts of those who love us into action. He makes the equipment we need available. He helps us recover from the amnesia and numbness that we use to cope, and challenges us to confront the pain so we can begin healing. He uses injuries to slow our pace and refocus our hearts on simple truth.
Everything is taking three times longer than usual today. Home has become an obstacle course that I need to crutch and crawl through, even going down the stairs like a toddler who bumps down one by one on her behind. It feels so silly, so dependent, and still painful. But I also feel stronger by going through it, by finding healthy and safe ways to cope with the pain.
It is hard and unhealthy to ignore our hurt; we must confront it. It may take more devoted time spent with the Lord; it can be exhausting; and it can be very uncomfortable. But it will all be for our benefit in the end.
Let’s give our hurts, big and small, over to God. And let’s watch in awe as He sets everything in motion, heals deep hurts, and works things out for our good.
Also, life lesson, stay off your phone when walking down stairs!
A season of darkness, unending.
The valley is deep. The night is black.
Tree leaves rustle with tickling wind, and the march of two footsteps.
No trace of light to be found.
She rambles forth wounded in the void.
Her footing uneasy. Her heart low and laden.
Eyes accustomed to the shadows, forgetting what vivid color looks like.
She longs to see the sun.
She cannot retrace the path behind her.
Unknown how she got here. Unknown why she stayed so long.
Night fell before she could return safely, and proceeds infinitely.
Loneliness pervades.
It has been years of this.
The purpose unclear. The darkness ever looming.
But alas, this moment, she lifts her tear-stained chin and weary eyes toward the sky.
A sliver of sunlight over the mountain ahead.
Her heartbeat quickens.
Hope is rising. Healing is coming.
The valley soon to brim with glorious Light as she grabs hold of joy again.
She leaves the shadowland behind.
Captivated Me 