The Uphill Hike

This past Monday, I hiked the Chimney Tops trail with my dear friends Pamela and Beverly. It was the first time I had ever hiked that trail. My friends tried to warn me how difficult it was, but man! I felt like I was dying. It's been a good month (at least) since I've made time to go running, and even if I had been running faithfully, hiking is a different kind of exercise. When I'm out exploring nature, I like to look at the trees and sky and everything around me, but it wasn't long before all my attention was focused on the ground in front of me. My legs burned and felt like jelly at the same time, and I struggled to keep putting one foot in front of the other as we walked up the steep trail.

Now, I generally think of myself as a pretty athletic person, but I was the one in our group who had to take breaks the most often. Pamela and Beverly were very gracious in stopping for me and walking at my pace, and, though I'm usually a the-more-the-merrier type of person, I was actually relieved that my other friend, who walks and hikes at a much faster pace, was not there to make me feel even slower than I already felt. (Sorry, Kristen. You know I love you.)

I'm not going to lie, my sluggish pace and intense difficulty in hiking was very discouraging to me, especially when little kids and senior citizens started passing us on their way down, looking like they had taken a five-minute walk in the park. I was utterly embarrassed to realize how weak and out of shape I am, especially compared to Pam and Bev and all the strangers around me. We would take a short break to catch our breath, then Pam and Bev would look at me or ask if I was ready to go, and we kept going. Then a few minutes later, I had to stop again. Pathetic.

There was a certain section of the trail that I really thought was going to kill me. It's over a hundred yards (I'm really bad at estimating distances.) straight uphill, like a never-ending staircase of doom. I had to stop so many times, and I felt humiliated because of my own inability to do what seemed like a simple thing. Something that everyone around me seemed able to do with far less difficulty than me. Halfway up that section, we took a more significant break, actually sitting down on some rocks next to the trail. Dozens of people passed us by on their way up or down the trail, and all I kept thinking was, "Why is this so hard for me? How am I supposed to make it to the top?" I looked up the trail, and all I saw was more stairs, more steep trail, more difficulty. (In fact, I'm pretty sure that, as we got further into the hike, every time we turned a corner and I saw more uphill trail, I verbally moaned. I don't know why Pam and Bev didn't slap me around or tell me to quit my complaining.)

Then Pam, sensing my discouragement, said, "Look back at the trail. Look at how far you've come." From where I sat on the rock, I turned around and looked at the trail below. I had certainly made it a long way.

"You've made it this far," Bev chimed in. "You can do it."

I don't think I had the breath to respond, but after a minute, I stood up, and we kept walking, slowly putting one foot in front of the other.

Maybe it seems really insignificant and lame (because, let's be real, I am incredibly out of shape), but the hike became a mental battle for me. "Just put one foot in front of the other," I thought. "Just one foot in front of the other. Don't think about the whole mountain, just make this step. Now this step. Now this step. Step. Step. Step."

It was hard. I didn't want to continue. But I realized that I would never make it to the top if I didn't keep moving. It didn't matter how slowly I walked (and, gratefully, Pam and Bev are very patient people), I just had to keep plodding up the trail. It didn't matter how much faster everyone else seemed to be going, I just had to keep hiking. I knew that if I kept going, eventually I would reach my goal.

And I realized that the same thing applies to my spiritual life.

Sometimes I feel like I'm climbing an impossibly steep trail, a trail that seems so much easier for everyone else, a trail that I can't see the end of. Sometimes this walk with the Lord is so hard that I can't even look around at the beauty that surrounds me, and even making the next step feels like a challenge. I'm often embarrassed and discouraged by how much I struggle, by how often I fail and need help, encouragement, and rest. I feel like I should be doing better, that everyone else finds it so much easier than me, that they'll surely reach the mountaintop sooner than I will.

The truth is that I am climbing a steep trail.

I realized while I was hiking that it's okay for my spiritual journey to be hard and painful and challenging. But I shouldn't let that stop me from putting one foot in front of the other. I'm not called to be as fast as everyone else - I'm not even on the same trail as everyone else. I'm called to keep making small steps, slow as they may be, toward the top of the mountain, toward joy and grace and intimacy with God.

Not only is it okay for me to go slowly, it's also okay for me to need encouragement and rest. I know I wouldn't have made it to the top of the Chimneys if Pam and Bev had not been there with me, and I know that God uses the people in my life to encourage me to keep going in my spiritual journey too.

And even if I can't see the end of the path, I know that it's there, and I know that it'll be worth all the pain of reaching it. I can find encouragement in how far I've come and the things I have conquered, and the more I go on climbing the mountain, the more I fight sin and pursue God, the stronger I'll be.

And more than all that, I know that I'm not called to walk up the trail in my own strength. God is with me, giving me strength and leading me to Himself, where there is grace and love and joy everlasting.

The view from the top.