June 26, 2015
The head was heavy. I never expected on this trip to hold my best
friends brown head in my palm because she had lost control of her
neck—because somewhere between A and B her entire body shut off
completely.
There were commands from the nurses—Move the braid, add the cool neck
towel, keep her ears uncovered, drop her arms and then cool the
forehead, remove the shoes, feed her a bite & then another.
There was enough water in her system, three liters to be exact—not
counting all the water we shoved down her throat after her body gave
out. And yes, she had enough sport beans, so stop trying to over analyze
the situation. Still, the very strength from her elbows, her toes—all
those places you don’t think of as strong—had lost all function.
I want to be clear, it wasn’t that she couldn’t keep climbing. She
climbed and unclimbed Mt Sinai just like the rest of us. She taught me
on the stairs as we trained that we can do another, we CAN DO an eighth
flight!
Rod stood at the front of the bus after all of this, and reminded us
all, she is talented and strong and committed and prepared, and yet
God—he chose this mountain, this day, this girl to teach the rest of us
about Yeshimon.
It was in this place that we started the day, in the wasteland.
If you are wondering what YESHIMON is, it is a land you come to where you cannot make it without outside help…
Rod warned us of this right at the beginning, when we were young in
our day, eager and ready and excited for the looming walls of the bare
and electric rock before us. The sun was plugged in, warming the land
for our journey, much to his joy. (He prayed for that sun so we could
experience then entirety of this desert, and boy did we ever.)
The cliffs hung desperate and loud with praise, ragged and jagged
like the fingernails of an overworked man. If there is green, it is hard
and durable like metal spikes pretending to be cheerful. We took each
step across the loose rock like we were walking ice, deliberate &
careful. Every step required a prayer for strong ankles.
This YESHIMON was the place Elijah ran, desperate and
depressed—begging God to let him die. We met a broom tree much like the
one Elijah sat under for shade, as it cut at our ankles with its knives
of thorns. This plant was named “the shade of the desert.” The desert,
this place where God fulfills all need, and gives “just enough.”
“Why? Why the desert?” you ask. Because, God is here! We see Him
here! Better than that, we NEED Him here and so this is why He brings us
there. Not to hurt us but to give us a full full life. One we cannot
experience without Him in His entirety. And so hardship is a gift and
something we also cannot do alone. It is HERE he teaches us to rely on
Him and on others for all of it. Every step. Here we learn that what we
once thought was sweet really has no flavor at all once we taste and see
that the Lord is good.
It is HERE in the desert the Israelites wander, reaching Mt. Sinai
where Moses climbed like we did and met the Lord (Jesus) as a friend
would meet, face to face. Or head in palm.
Rod herds us gently into the corners of the desert, each and every
hand and foot put to good use to get the person behind us one step
further. Falling in line like a snake—over, around, down—the rocks. A
few of us leap like goats—some of us quaking like the shaking hand of an
elderly hand. Each a necessary part of it all, this crusty beloved
family.
Our temporary shepherd stops, deliberately spacing our rest so we can
feed on the word, while the canopy of stone hangs in silence around us.
It is now, when we are gathered, when the stones beneath our failing
feet are silent—it is then that I can see and hear God.
He is watching us, gentle, quiet, listening.
And we proceed in our chatter, dried mangos, our urinating.
He is in all of it.
At last—we reach the top. Somehow we feel it is the end. Around us
standing stones erect like chimneys saying “GOD, we will trust you,”
“GOD we will move forward with you.”
The Sun, its stinging our legs, slapping them red while we learn how
God loved us—hard and good into his arms, the place He’s beckoned us
from the beginning. And like an independent child we twist and turn away
from His embrace. Like a mustang we fight for ourselves—untamed for
self reliance. Straining at the beautiful creation of fences He’s made
of these vows He’s spoken like a love song over us to protect and guide
and bless us.
And us, unaware that they are made in love we fight the fences—these
sweet laws that keep us safe from wolves and we hurt and we hurt and we
hurt in our protest
But, He marries us despite our straining and striving away. He married you. He married me.
He married and loves and admires my best friend and L as she pushes
along with the imperfect leg and us through our divorces and our
trembling and our depression and our anxiety and our grumpy lack of
sleep selves. He still does.
And as Nate holds Janas hand, as he weeps with empty hands and a full
mouth of prayer he turns his back on all of it to speak to God face to
face, friend to friend—to tell God, “I will not forget, I will remember”
He chooses to be small even when more than anything in the world he
wants to be large and able he realizes more than self reliance he wants
the best for his wife, his bride. (such a picture of Christ) So, the
young football players, the youth pastors, the men, the caboose, &
yes the photographer too, carry her limbs over the craters and the three
blonde nurses huddle
and rotate ankles and Mike waves and Jeremy calms. And Rod, the shepherd
gets on his knees and carefully calmly whispers “Rest, Precious one.
Rest on the inside.”
We share water, tears, prayer, highfives, saliva. We share a God. A Father.
He carried the entirety of this in his palm, watching, smiling particularly pleased with the little brown sheep.
Carving out ahead of us just enough time, just enough arms, just
enough shade just enough manna, & just enough water from a rock.
We may have FELT like an Acacia tree, crooked and dormant like an old
ladies back after years hunched over, but then our God, He comes like a
WADI (a stream) and refills its
branches with food for camels and hard hard wood for places that God once lived.
And we find in our desperateness that that is what God is, a stream,
Shade, arms—and what God is is what we shall be to the world.
And so, if even Jana thinks she is a burden or small or stupid we had
an excellent opportunity to be a Priest today and be exactly what God
is to her.
Shade, rest, water, a gate. To speak love over her And anyone who may be not strong enough to lift up their head.
– Chelsea Garter
