This afternoon seemed a microcosm of the past month.
I climbed Flat Top, the taller of the two “Peaks of Otter.” At 4,001 feet, it’s one of the tallest mountains in Virginia and the tallest mountain I’ve ever hiked. With the only car in the parking lot and as the only hiker, I ascended the shady 2.6-mile path and 1,500-foot climb at a steady pace. A cool breeze took the murky heat of the afternoon away from my skin.
I was hoping for some contemplative time, some intervention silence on the paramount rocks.
About two thirds of the way up, I noticed a dark horizon to the north. My stride lengthened; and I pushed the pace just a tad, then more then a tad, then to breathless. Thunder. Victory stood at the top with me on the pinnacle boulders. I snapped pictures for a few minutes. Okay, probably two minutes. The mountains across the way (normally the first row of 5-7 rows visible at a time up there) blended seamlessly into the sky—somehow like the storms I used to watch gather over the Chesapeake Bay.
I had climbed to a great vista but couldn’t rest in the accomplishment.
Thunder clapped close. I took a long swig from my Gatorade bottle, packed the camera and sunglasses and drinks, then bolted for the bottom. My steps were quick, the crunch of trail underneath. Most of the path was fairly clear and gradual. As often as I could, I jogged—pounding my frame as my legs resisted the slope. I tweaked both my ankles and my right knee in almost-accidents.
About half way down to the parking lot I heard the tap of random sprinkles on the canopy above, then a rat-tat-tat of a shower, then the old-TV white noise of a deluge. I sped through the straight stretches, running on the edge of the trail, the center of which, at this point, was an aqueduct for mountain rain. But the wetness didn’t bother me. I had planned for it, dressed in swim trunks and carrying a waterproof pack.
It was the lightning and shrinking counts between flash and rumble that propelled me. I never stopped—not even for a drink—until my gear was in the car, the towels on the front seat, the shoes off my feet. Two miles into my drive home, the sun emerged. Before I was off the mountain—I kid you not—”I Can See Clearly Now the Rain Has Gone” surprised me on the XM Christian station, as steam rose from the asphalt.
The adventure and danger were over.
The past month has included seismic spiritual moments—identifiable and personal. They’ve rocked my world . . . in a good way. So much so, that people around me have commented about the recognizable encounters. Yesterday, one of my pastors wrote me an email saying that my spiritual journey encouraged him in his work like the Philippians encouraged Paul. I was climbing high, responding to God like I haven’t before, riding a spiritual wave.
I got scared, wondering what would bring me back to earth. How would it happen? What would God take away? What kind of crisis loomed? Would it make me a hypocrite, a disgruntled disciple?
I didn’t have to wait too long for the answer. I thought it would be something external, a faith trial, some not-so-angel unaware.
But it was me.
My wife came home from work last night, and without warning I turned from my usually-pessimistic, OCD self into a verbally-abusive, arrogant jerk. I knew it, but I was in the middle of the mountain. In the thunder and rain, lightning and mud, I couldn’t get off the path—couldn’t stop the descent.
Soaking in wrongness, I was disoriented by the switchbacks and changing horizon. Stumbling, I twisted truth and fairness, grimacing inside each time. It was a dark place. I recognized it, having been there before.
I’m off the mountain now—I hope. And just like I looked at the sign for the next mountain to conquer from behind the intermittent wipers today, I look forward to my next spiritual success. Maybe this rigorous physical adventure (and the gold-lined clouds over the stop lights) will prove a harbinger of the return of spiritual brightness around my self-made storms.
Church awaits tomorrow. I’ll have 20 hours to prepare for Monday.
