For Now, There is a Mountain

Prologue: I have been writing this blog post since July (no pressure, reader.) I even posted it a month ago and then deleted it in a fit of self-doubt, because it felt unfinished. The piece feels unfinished because it is unfinished; I shall keep musing on mountains and journeys and struggle and valleys until I die. However, there may still be something to say in the meantime, and since a friend graciously preserved two wee lines from the hastily-deleted post on his facebook wall, I have the opportunity to rebuild around what may have been the only two lines worth remembering anyway.

Here goes.

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An unexpected thing happened during the Presbyterian church service I attended last Sunday. As we concluded the congregational prayer, rounded the corner of the final hymn and looked down the home stretch into what would surely be the benediction (given the fact that we were Presbyterians), the pastor paused in a moment of genuine, extemporaneous, Spirit-led reflection and said, "If anyone has a word or song to give the congregation from the Spirit, please feel free to share now."

And lo, a woman in the balcony uttered in a resonant voice that carried from narthex to nave:

"The Lord says: you were on a mountain and now you are in a valley, and I have put you there. You will be on the top once again, but for now, there is a mountain to climb."

The words transported me to the top of Twisp Pass in the North Cascades, where I sat this summer and watched the day light empty from the pale, overturned bowl of the sky. In the twilight the mountain peaks were turned to black knife edges, and the starkness of their jagged form was at once desolate and lovely. I thought of the trek my friend and I had completed that day, of a long slog through the forest, of mosquitoes clinging to the backs of our legs, of a heavy pack and an empty stomach and swtichback after switchback after switchback, and it seemed to me that it was all worth it. To be in the high country, to be washed clean by alpine air, to contemplate the agelessness of granite-- this was true delight.

It made me wonder if the best things in this life are the hardest to get to. Perhaps the greatest exaltation results from the most struggle. What if the richest relationships, the deepest joys, and the most contentment arises amidst perseverance through weariness, heartbreak, uncertainty, pain and disillusion? I am not certain that the converse is true, and that something by virtue of being difficult will be good. Some valleys are just valleys. Or are they? If God is going about His business of redeeming the whole sorry lot of us, maybe every drop of blood and every tear is fashioning a new earth so indescribably glorious that we would crumble to dust if we saw it now. Maybe.

What I am trying to elucidate is the different between seeing oneself on a hamster wheel, and seeing oneself on a journey to a summit. For the person in the latter circumstance, there is the hope that sometimes we may find ourselves on a way that is steep and winding, yet leading to something beautiful. One day we shall be on the top again, but for now, there is a mountain to climb.

Casting Practice

We stood on the ten-yard line of the middle school football field as the sun was receding to the tree tops, and evening shadows began to lie across the green turf. A few high schoolers threw a frisbee to one another and watched curiously as Dad assembled his five-weight Redington fly rod, likely wondering what a middle aged man and his daughter hoped to catch on dry land with no water in sight.

Unconcerned and unhurried, Dad threaded the line through the rod, finally tying a small piece of pink yarn on the end of the tippet in place of a hook. With smooth, expert movements he tugged down on the line while flicking the rod backward, and then tugged once more with a forward flick of the rod sending the line whizzing through the rod and out toward the fifty-yard line. A double-haul cast, he explained, and watched the progress of the yarn across the field, hopeful as a quarterback throwing a football for a winning touchdown.

I ran to see where the "hook" had landed, and found it lying a yard shy of the thirty-five yard mark.

"Seventy-two feet!" I shouted back to the expectant figure, who grimaced his disapproval and reeled the line in. The goal had been seventy-five. He then held the rod out to me.

"Want to try?"

I hadn't held fly rod since I was twelve year-old on the North Fork of the American River in the Sierra Nevadas, standing at dusk as my father hooked a tiny Rainbow Trout and handed it to me to throw back into the eddying pool. I held the wee fish in my hand, looked into its clear black eye and, spooked into action, hurriedly threw it back toward the water. It flopped instead on the granite, thrashed its body back and forth and--I swear it-- had a look of terror on its fish-face. I screamed loud enough to scare every trout within three miles away: "Daddy Daddy! He is going to die!" And that was the last fish my father caught that evening. It was also the end of my fishing career to that point. From then on I would happily slither and hop miles up and downriver with Dad, but only as a spectator.

No fish were involved in casting with pink yarn, though. I held the Redington in my hands. I flicked the rod forward, and the line tentatively whooshed through the reel. I noted the barely suppressed glee on Dad's face, his prodigal daughter returned to the religion of her forefathers.

And now the instruction:

"Ten and two, Sarah B, just imagine a clock: pull the line and go backward to 2, then forward to 10. Let the rod work, and keep your elbow still."

Tug. Backward. Forward. The rod tip bent and the line sailed in a satisfying whir. I laughed, feeling a rush of affection for the Redington. What was it Gus calls his rod in The River Why? Rodney. Yes. I could now imagine naming one's fly rod, watching as the one I held so gracefully responded to the motion of my hand.

The tippet floated down at the twenty-yard line, landing thirty feet from here I stood.

"Thirty feet, budgie!" Dad crowed while crouching over the bit of yarn, "When we try this on the water I guess fish within thirty feet of you ought to be worried!"

He looked proud and paternal standing there with a little bow of pink yarn pinched between his fingers that I grinned and tried again.

This wasn't bad at all.

Sitting on Babies

I agreed to babysit Caden and Colin last night, the children of my good friends the Norwoods, and two of my favorite little'uns. Since Caden is five years old and Colin 8 months, I imagined that the night would be simple: make some food, walk around the neighborhood and put Colin to bed shortly after, since babies need so much sleep and all. And heck, Caden would probably pass out too if I let him ride his bike long and hard enough and then I could have an hour of unobstructed babysitter time to browse through the coffee table magazines and the back of the refrigerator. I looked forward to a quiet evening.

When I arrived, Colin was fussing in mom's arms. "He seems to want to be held today, " she apologized. "How bad can that be?" I thought to myself, "He weighs about 15 pounds and is darling." Mom and Dad left, and our quartet-- Colin, Caden, myself and Luna-the-dog-- began fixing dinner.

I set Colin in the high chair with the hopes that I could heat the black beans on the stove and preheat the broiler for our nachos. Wrong. After 15 seconds and approximately three stirs of the black beans Colin began wailing in a high-pitched and uncomfortable way. Meanwhile Caden wanted to show me his paints, his light sabers, his sunglasses, his bike, his sock monkey, his Robin Hood hat. Luna, perhaps out of nervousness, wrapped her forepaws around my upper leg and began gyrating on my shin.

With baby on my hip, dog on my ankle and a wooden spoon in hand I gingerly stirred the black beans and enlisted Caden to sprinkle cheese and cilantro on top of the tortilla chips. By a minor miracle I slid the nacho plate into the oven to broil and melt the cheese, saying to Caden, "The key to good nachos, my friend, is to check the oven often. Otherwise they burn real fast."

"Oh," said Caden with his forehead wrinkled intently, "Well, are they burning now?"

Perceptive boy.

There was smoke pouring out of the vent in the left burner. The smoke alarm started screeching. The dog ran out the back door to take cover in the bushes. Caden hid behind the bar stools. Colin mewled piteously from his perch on my hip and grew furious when I put him down to extract the nachos and fan the smoke.

"Wow, those are kind of black," observed Caden.

Like I said, he is a perceptive boy.

Somehow our party made it to the back porch for a burnt-nacho picnic. Still no luck with the high chair for Colin, even though I tried to shovel hummus into his mouth -- supposedly his favorite food--at at alarmingly fast rate. He didn't seem to find it fast enough. There was hummus in his ear, on his eyebrow and dribbling down his chest. Soon there was hummus on my shoulder when picked him up to calm him. Meanwhile Caden wanted a dollop of sour cream and a splash of chipotle hot sauce on each chip.

With one hand I cleared the mess from the table and entreated Caden to help grab a cup or two. "Can we play the, 'Don't Pick That Up' game?" he asked.

He explained the rules: I would insist that he NOT take the bowl of grapes into the house, or that he NOT clear the hot sauce from the table, and then while my back was turned he would do the opposite. I believe at this point that I blankly started at his eager face and shrugged my consent.

Twelve trips and much reverse psychology later the table was cleared and we made a successful lap around the neighborhood with Caden on bike and Colin in a tiny stroller. I forgot to put pants on the baby so his legs and feet got pretty cold long before Caden was ready to abandon his bike, but I thought that if we could get back to the house and feed Colin a little warm milk he might just fall asleep.

Colin still refused to be left in a high chair, so with him wrapped around my neck and Luna trailing behind and Caden now attempting to squirt acrylic paints onto a palette for paint-by-numbers, I warmed up some milk and then sat in the rocking chair to emulate that motherly action of rocking and feeding baby.

Baby didn't like it. He voraciously sucked on the bottle and then alternately pushed it away with frustrated hands. I tried tilting him back in my arms and tried standing and nothing seemed to satisfy. The standing was eventually successful in getting the milk to come back up. My shirt and somehow my jeans had spit-up on them. Colin didn't look better. It seemed an opportune time to clean the little guy up, seeing as he was encrusted with milk and hummus and vomit.

As he sat on the changing table Colin swiped with surprising dexterity at diapers and wipes and finally at the baby powder, giving it a good whack, and sending fine, white powder into the air. I tried to tug the dirty clothing over his head while he wailed at my inexpert attempts. When the shirt was finally off, I looked at his face covered in a dusting of what looked like cake-flour and wanted to cry. Colin cried for both of us. Caden peeked his head in the door and wondered when I would come paint with him? Luna mounted my leg again.

So this was it, I thought. Mom and Dad would come home at 10 pm and neither child would be asleep. The dog would be frantically humping my shin, the baby would be neither clothed nor clean, I would be covered in vomit and Caden would be strung-out on peanut butter ice cream. Did I mention that I pacified the five-year-old with a bowl of peanut butter ice cream an hour past bed-time?

At 9 30 pm, I lifted Colin into my arms and patted his tiny back while pacing the living room. He gummed my shoulder and grunted.

"I think Colin is making his sleepy noises," whispered Caden hopefully.

Without ceasing my movement across the floor I nodded wearily at Caden, certain that Colin would start crying soon enough.

Then, without warning, Colin's downy head fell onto my chest, his fine hair tickling my neck. I glanced wide-eyed at Caden, who mouthed soundlessly to me, "His eyes are closed!"

One minute passed. Five minutes passed. I sat in the rocking chair and still Colin's head lay heavy on my collarbone. Caden stretched out on the couch and said, "I am feeling sleepy like my brother."

At ten minutes I tentatively stood up and walked with Colin to the bassinet where he slept. He only sighed and snored when I placed him in his bed.

Caden's eyes were closed and his chest was rising and falling gently on the couch.

"Let's get some spider-man pj's on, Caden."

He nodded and let me lead him to his room.

The dog was curled up under the window and merely lifted an eyebrow at us as we passed.

Within ten minutes the house had gone from chaos to peace. The two little ones were asleep and I looked the picture of domesticity. The parents would never know about the burning and the alarm and the crying and the peanut butter ice cream and the humping dog! I imagined how they would ask about the evening I would say airily, "Oh, just fine. The kids are great."

They walked in the door as I flipped through a magazine and stood to greet them with a nonchalant toss of my limp ponytail over my shoulder...

"Sarah," asked Tom quizzically, "Do you have flour all over your face?"

Raison d' etre

I haven't forgotten my blog exists, but I have felt devoid of writing inspiration. Other blogs post recipes or neat pictures of interesting adventures or landscapes or describe current events or discuss books. I have a dear friend who just posted watercolors she painted herself; it caused an identity crisis of blog proportions. I have no paintings or photos or revolutions to post. So why write? In short, what is the raison d'etre of this blog?

I began writing this after graduating from college. This seems to be the case for a lot of my blogging friends actually, and that may reveal one key fact about "Now and Not Yet": it is one way I am grappling with the experience of being in this particular place, at this particular time, as this particular twenty-something year old woman. I don't write in order to update friends about daily goings on, but I do write to describe where I happen to be. It is an existential practice.

Doesn't mean anyone needs to care much Where I Happen To Be, but the act of synthesizing and analyzing and actualizing thoughts into a piece of writing is enormously helpful for me. I like the work of posting for an audience, even of one or two. I mean, you should read my journal. It is inane and borderline megalomaniac. Pages and pages about myself. A blog forces me to ask whether or not the world at large would care whether or not I feel cranky and like eating twelve quesadillas. I have to edit.

Apparently I have this blog because a) I like it and b) it helps me. I say, "apparently" because I have just made the aforementioned observations for the first time in the process of creating this post. Utility proven. Raison d'etre discovered (for now.)

[postscript: There is the auxiliary benefit in sharing oneself that it mqy occasionally encourage other people. I really like when that happens. So. I will keep writing to find out where I am, and hope that it might help others every once and a while, too.]

Fin.

Ninety

A smart, older person, trying to help me discern future vocation, asked me the following question: 

When you are ninety years old, what do you want to see when you look back upon your life?

  

A few pictures--some clear, others blurry--arose unbidden in my mind's eye.  To start with the clear, I (for reasons yet unclear) remembered a particular day in South Africa in which half of our student group trooped down to Itipini, "place of the dump," a village built on top of a trash heap.  With sunglasses pulled over my eyes I stared out the window of our moving van trundling happily along to Trash Dump Town, certain that whatever I was about to see would incite sorrow, anger, discomfort.  We arrived at Itipini and tiptoed over a path made of dirt, pig shit, and broken glass to the door of a clinic and community center begun by Jenny McConnachie, a British surgeon and ex-patriot.  I pulled off my sunglasses, stepped inside, and promptly returned the glasses to the bridge of my nose because I had begun to cry.  The clinic was nondescript, white, bare.  Jenny was plain, simply dressed, quiet; it was all so unexpectedly peaceful.  We floated through the center, touching pictures, neatly stacked papers and sharpened pencils, breathing in the hard won stillness carved out of a discordant place.  

Outside the clinic black, barefoot children swarmed to our white sides.  Their mothers (sixteen, fifteen years old?)  watched in the wings.  This isn't hard, I thought, and touched a face here, smoothed a brow there, marveled at hardened feet that ran so carelessly over trash.  

As I contemplated the scene before me in the shade of the clinic roof, now free of children and feeling dazed, a professor stood beside me and tapped my shoulder:   

"Could you see yourself doing something like this?" he asked. 

"Yes," I answered.  

Though I don't know why.  

As for the more blurry pictures, wisps of images float to the surface like bubbles rising from a deep, underground spring.  A solid, gracious house.  A front porch.  A long, wooden dining table with people around it.  Lamps lit late into the evening for conversation.  A writing table. A window.  And my own face, looking startlingly like Jenny McConnachie's, with a gray braid coming apart around my shoulders and eyes that are like falling into a well.  

To Whomever Was Playing the Steel Guitar This Evening on the Roof

thank you

for reminding me that i 

(sometimes as stiff and unbending as a  strip of cracked leather)

may still be moved to tremble with sound

loveliness

the deepening evening

or quiet gratitude

as surely as a steel string thrums under the fingers of a master 

Valley of the Shadow

A friend of mine has been walking through a great darkness, for longer than expected and with no sign of reprieve; some days the darkness actually seems to expand and deepen, yawning ahead in terrible monotony.  

So I have been reading the Psalms with a cynic sitting on my shoulder that digs its sharp little claws into my skin when the psalmists exclaim over God's comfort, nearness, mercy: 

"I waited patiently for the Lord; he turned to me and heard my cry"

(maybe You haven't heard me yet?)

"For I will yet praise Him, my Savior and my God"

(but how do we praise what we can't find?)

"He rescued me from my powerful enemy, from my foes who were too strong for me"

(Maybe You just haven't gotten to my friend yet, is she next on the list?)

Why, when we need the solace of the Almighty most, do we seem to walk alone through the valley of the shadow of death?

Rabbi Harold Kushner came up with the conclusion that God in fact is impotent, in Why Bad Things Happen to Good People.  That solution doesn't sit well with me.  Scratch that off the list. 

Another option is that God perhaps removes himself purposely, that we might learn to have faith.  To a degree, it is certainly evident that we are purified and refined by suffering.  However, I detest the idea that God might withhold Himself in our time of need just so we might toughen up.  (Is that crass?  There is probably some value to this line of thinking, but I still don't like it.) 

Or perhaps it is our fault.  Perhaps like the hardened Israelites, we fail to have eyes that see and ears that ear; we do not recognize the manna, the pillar of fire, the water from the rock.  This has some merit.  Humans have a history of blindness. 

But still.  When this friend tells me that faith seems inadequate to answer the deep questions of life and that God seems far away when she needs Him most, do I tell her it is her fault?  Do I tell her God is teaching her a lesson? Do I tell her He actually cannot do anything to help?

I doubt Brother Lawrence intended his book title to help me answer my questions, but nonetheless, Practicing the Presence of God seems an apt description of how we might approach our suffering.  If I take God's Word, written and Incarnate, seriously, then I must believe God is with us in the valley.  If I believe that He was born as a man, crucified and resurrected, defeating sin, death and the devil... well, then.  He is certainly there amidst the shadows.  I am borrowing from Karl Barth when I say I think there is an objective Truth that God is near, even while we somehow subjectively experience His absence.  So we practice.  We practice His presence.  We practice trusting.  We resolutely cling to God-With-Us even though our circumstances indicate otherwise.  

Rainer Maria Rilke writes in summary better than I can.  

"So you must not be frightened, dear Mr. Kappus, if a sadness rises up before you larger than any you have ever seen; if a restiveness like light and cloud-shadows, passes over your hands and over all you do [...]  You must be patient as a sick man and confident as one who is becoming well, for perhaps you are both."

-Letters to a Young Poet