Fierce Beauty (12 page)

Gradually something else became apparent. The kneeling woman was not alone.

Surrounding her was a “presence,” slithering shapes hidden in shadow. These evil apparitions whispered in the darkness: “I hate it when she bows before
Him
. She does this from time to time when she hears something that moves her.” “It’s momentary pangs of guilt that drive her here, but she loves
us
too much to let go.” “She’s already so numb, so dead within her selfish ambitions, it takes few of us to control her now.” “As long as she focuses on herself, she’s nearly useless to the One.” “It doesn’t matter if she knows the words of the Book, as long as they stay in her head and not her heart, as long as she doesn’t
live
them.”

Only then did I realize the woman was not simply kneeling; she was
praying
.

Still cast in a position of supplication, the woman held an object in each hand. Clutched with a white-knuckled grasp in her left was a spectacular bejeweled crown. It was obvious that it once fit perfectly on her head, for upon her brow was a deep, red groove. She’d worn the glorious, heavy decoration for a long while, perhaps even a lifetime. Firmly gripped in her right hand was a long, silver, extremely sharp, two-edged sword.

I watched the woman intently. Suddenly her entire body shuddered. She drew in a deep breath, opened her eyes, and slowly raised her head.

Methodically the woman rose so that she was balanced on one knee and one foot. Then she raised her arms, both items still locked in her grasp. Holding them out, she studied them, looking back and forth between the glamorous crown and the ordinary sword. One article was a magnificent adornment to be worn. The other was a common instrument
designed, when wielded properly, to protect and serve. One garnered praise; the other gave assistance. One created envy; the other created freedom. One was designed to attract prideful attention and exalt its owner. The other was forged to defend the weak and exalt a King.

The woman continued to stare first at one object, then the other. Clearly, she was trying to make a choice between the two.

Then the woman’s eyebrows came together. With intention she rose to her feet and balanced her weight. She raised the crown and the sword to eye level.

This was it … She was about to choose!

“It’s Sue’s birthday! Let’s climb South Sister to celebrate the birth of my dear friend!”

Since 1995 that annual milestone has been the only excuse I need to climb this fun peak on or near every June 23. South Sister is the largest of the Three Sisters mountains. These dramatic and beautiful volcanoes were originally named Faith, Hope, and Charity. At 10,358 feet Charity, South Sister, stands as Oregon’s third largest peak, with an eleven-mile-round-trip trail that rises five thousand vertical feet to its broad summit. It’s a straightforward hike that takes climbers to one of the best viewpoints in the state.

Because I can get inexperienced hikers to South Sister’s glaciated summit, I love to take my staff and volunteers who come from abroad to see this incredible slice of the Northwest. Though Sue was out of town, a recent June morning presented the perfect opportunity—the weather was clear and cooperating. It looked to be an extraordinary day.

With ten of my ranch family in tow, I set off at the trailhead through a quiet hemlock forest. On our way up we passed a square boulder the size of my living room that had avalanched down a dozen years earlier. Since I used to train on this trail many times a week, I’d missed its fall by a
single
day. While tumbling for a quarter of a mile and carving a trench big enough for my truck to drive through, the behemoth snapped off enormous trees and scattered them like a child tossing a handful of pick-up-sticks.
Finally the boulder came to rest in the middle of the hiking trail. Never have I stood at its immense base and not admired the path of destruction that its descent left behind.

This gigantic boulder used to be part of a stone fortress towering over the roof of the forest. The life it once knew was that of a pillar within a colossal ridge high above. It was a boulder for the ages, or so thought every generation that once stood upon its broad shoulders. Now it sits on the lowly forest floor, dethroned of its former moorings of grandeur. Since it rests defiantly in the middle of the trail, the new path obediently detours around it.

After hiking about two miles, our group popped out of the deep forest and onto the Moraine Plains. Here the earth transformed from soft duff beneath towering boughs into dry, gray pumice. As the trees dropped behind us, we were greeted by massive vistas of South Sister, Broken Top, and Mount Bachelor.

Step by purposeful step, we moved closer toward our goal and ever-expanding views. It seemed impossible that the panorama could get any wider or better, yet the proof that filled our eyes with every mounting stride clearly proclaimed that it could. I’ve never climbed a mountain without pondering how closely it must resemble our walk with our King. Although each step takes effort, each one also makes us stronger. Strung together, those steps bring us closer to Him and into a beauty far beyond anything we’ve ever known or could even imagine.

About a mile from the summit, we carefully ascended the talus-strewn terminal moraine of Lewis Glacier. The reward of cresting its rim was to feast our eyes on the entire glacier sloping down into one of the most surreal green melt pools I’ve ever seen. Here we honored tradition by stopping to take in refreshments along with some indescribable views.

Recharged from the brief rest, we pressed on to the final summit push. Even the one-step-up, two-steps-back effect of hiking on loose scree couldn’t dampen the thrill we felt from being in such a wondrous place.
By climbing the western ridge that flanks Lewis Glacier, we could look right into the yawning mouths of many deep blue crevasses.

Once we reached the summit crest, we strode across the broad crown toward the northeast ridge, where the true summit juts into view. Depending on the season, an ice blue teardrop pool often forms beneath the western ridge inside this nearly perfect volcanic cone. On this day all that was visible was a bright aqua depression where the water triumphantly bled through the icy snow, well on its way to becoming an ice-free pool.

Having scaled the last few hundred feet to the top, we rewarded ourselves by stopping at a suitable boulder near the edge to enjoy lunch with a view. Although I can’t remember how the practice officially started, for some important reason every mountain that we climb in June has to be accompanied by a maturity-building cherry-pit-spitting contest off the summit.

I knew that this year my position as Exalted Queen of the Pits would be challenged by two young men who were eager to put my superhuman pit-spitting ability to the test. Once lunch was finished, Jeff, Sam, and I lined up near the edge of a precipice like pigeons on a wire. Each of us picked a boulder to perch on. I selected a trusted old friend of a rock that I’ve chosen to sit on—sometimes several times a year—since 1985.

Our preferred seating was ideal because of the abrupt downslope on the northern rim of the mountain. Beyond this slope, rock dropped almost vertically for nearly thirty feet, separating us from the upper reaches of the perilously steep Prouty Glacier. It was the perfect location for our pit-spitting challenge to begin. We passed around the bag of deep purple Bing cherry ammunition and steeled ourselves for the ensuing competition.

Sam’s first attempt was pitiful. Jeff and I ended up wearing most of his effort, while his pit didn’t even make a showing. In the best teeth-clenched, Clint Eastwood–ish smack talk I could muster, I said, “You spit like a little girl.”

Even before Jeff’s attempt I knew that my queen days might be numbered. He had the focus, intensity, and technique. He was trouble, all
right! His first launch had distance but, thankfully, no arc. My superhero status was safe for the time being.

Unfortunately for me, with each shot the boys fired, they simply grew better and better. Soon I was pulling out all the stops by gripping my boulder on either side of my thighs, leaning back, and adding an extra whiplash with my upper body to get all the precious distance I could. Even so, Sam was gaining ground. Among his haphazard misfires, he sent a few that were truly home-run material. Meanwhile, Jeff, my blue-eyed opponent, continued to laugh sweetly in my face while handing me the pit-spitting spanking of a lifetime.

I still had a card to play, however. I was banking on the proven adage that “age and treachery will always triumph over youth and skill.” For the benefit of my opponents, I paused dramatically, appearing to savor the delightful cherry pulp in my mouth. The reality behind my cherry-luvin’ behavior was to conceal that I was analyzing the loose strands of my hair dancing in the breeze like a high-altitude, pit-spitting-duel-to-the-death windsock. The moment my hair fell straight was the same moment I knew there was clear air space to fire away.

My dastardly inspiration worked right up until … the earth moved—literally!

Without warning, the boulder I’d been sitting on with my legs dangling over its edge suddenly shifted. Even if I’d been equipped with springs attached to my backside, I wouldn’t have moved away any faster. I’m not sure how I did it, but I sprang straight up and came down in a different area from where I started, probably looking much like a big, goofy jack-in-the-box. Jeff and Sam stared at me with the kind of open-mouthed wonder they might express if they were watching the space shuttle lift off.

At this point any explanation probably would have bounced off their already sky-high eyebrows. All I could do was point at my boulder and say, “It moved! My rock moved!”

I scooched forward and tapped the large stone a few times with the
heel of my boot. The entire boulder suddenly split in half and began crumbling in on itself. What was left of the rock I’d been perched on, the very one I’d sat on for nearly two decades of trips to this mountain, disappeared over the edge in a crushing, chaotic fall.

I swung my legs behind me and leaned over and watched my old friend tumble and spin through the air. It fractured into more irreparable pieces with every impact against the rock wall. Reduced to little more than a hail of heavy gravel, the once great boulder disappeared forever into the glacier below.

Jeff, Sam, and I raised our chins and wordlessly looked at one another. I watched my boys silently move off their boulders, farther away from the edge. What appeared to be permanent wasn’t. Just like my once-famed pit-spitting ability, my trusty old rock was no more.

No matter how stable things in this life might seem, nothing in this world is going to last—
nothing
.

I’d been sitting on the same giant boulder for years. I felt sure it couldn’t fall. It was huge; it was immovable; it was part of a mountaintop! Yet right before my eyes, it broke into pieces and vanished.

In this life there is no amount of beauty or popularity, no amount of power and wealth, no amount of anything this world can supply that will keep us from crumbling or prevent us from dying.

The foundations of who we are and hope to become are formed in the deepest caverns of our souls, yet devastating fissures can reach even this sacred place.
Everything
is subject to this world’s crushing, cracking forces of total destruction. When we choose to base our peace, our hope, our love, our salvation on temporary things, it stands to reason that these
things are going to be temporary! At some point they
are
going to crumble and fall.

But when we put our peace, hope, love, and salvation in Jesus Christ alone, it’s like putting them into a backpack and slinging them into heaven. They’re
eternally
safe.
Nothing
in this world can touch them. There is no feeling, no event, no disease, no confrontation, no collapse or catastrophe this life can deal out that can steal what Jesus Christ gave His life to secure for us.