I Lift My Eyes to the Hills, part 3

Mom went yardsaling last weekend and came home with a treadmill. I think something is wrong with the belt, because it makes the most terrifyingly obnoxious noise when you turn it on – somewhat akin to a roller coaster ascending a hill. We have a backpacking trip coming up next weekend so I use it anyway. And I can’t really complain because it was free!

While jogging along amid the clamor this morning, I tried to imagine myself surrounded by the breathtaking views and intoxicating air of the Sierras instead of the musty, dusty darkness of our garage. Birds chirping instead of treadmills clacking and all that.

There are many obvious parallels between a mountaineering trip and the Christian life. There is the narrow path, sometimes hard to see and difficult to follow, but so vital. Straying from that path could easily mean death.

There is the goal. The prize. It waits up there for you, beckoning you on, motivating you to keep toiling through the difficult parts of the journey.

There is the path itself that sometimes seems to take you directly away from where you want to be.

There is the view of the summit, which sometimes seems so close and so easy to reach… and then you round a corner only to find that layer upon layer of hills and valleys between you and your goal.

There are the stretches of trail along the way that seem almost insurmountable – simply too difficult, too tiring. But there, in the middle of the wilderness, you really have no choice. You begin to find out that you have strength and stamina beyond your expectations, and when pushed to the limit, you can achieve things you never imagined.

And then there is the summit itself - ALWAYS worth every drop of sweat, every blister and aching muscle – no matter how difficult the journey to get there. Not only is the beauty overwhelming and breathtaking and goosebump-inspiring, but all the hours of toiling are suddenly the farthest thing from your mind.

There is one other comparison that came to me that very first day when I caught the mountaineering bug. It was reinforced in the most powerful way on my first trip two years later, and it still exhilarates me on every summit. I’ve tried to write about it before, but it never comes out right; it sounds almost irreverent – but irreverence is truly the opposite of what I intend.

Mountains teach me about fearing God. My attitude toward God is, on a much grander scale, the same as my attitude toward mountains.

I used to be confused when the Bible talked about fear. Aren’t we supposed to love God? Even as our father? Isn’t He our comforter, our refuge, our stronghold? Where does fear fit into that? You don’t run to that which you fear, do you?

Yet there is a kind of fear that draws you in. The kind that leaves you on the edge of your seat, breathless. It is closer to awe and amazement than to the kind of fear that pushes you away. You want to get near it but you don’t feel worthy or able. Once you do get near it – once you taste a little bit of it – you are addicted. You can’t get enough of it.

It is mysterious. You never get to the end of it. You could spend your whole life exploring it and trying to wrap your mind around it... and you would never succeed, but the attempt would be more than worth the effort.