There are very few times in my life that I remember being truly terrified. The first time it happened, I was just a nine-year-old little girl on an outing with her family. It was quite common for my parents, brothers, sister, grandparents, and me to hop into our cars, throw a picnic lunch in the back, and head into the desert somewhere. What was just "somewhere" to me was always a specific place to the adults. We kids just went along for the ride and some fun times.
This particular day we stopped for lunch at the base of some hills along the dirt road. To me, they weren't hills. They were MOUNTAINS that needed to be climbed.
(Before going any further with this story, let me add this little tidbit. This was in Nevada. There were no trees, ferns, salal, moss or anything resembling a hand-hold growing on the slope--nothing, nada, zip.There was just scree. In other words, the base of the hill was a pile of small, loose, jagged rocks that had broken off from above and slid down to the bottom.)
Because the scree made climbing extremely difficult, any progress up that MOUNTAIN was nearly impossible. I would crawl several feet up, then slide down a bit. Slowly, oh so slowly, I moved upward and onward until I felt like I was half way to the top of the world. I really wasn't that high, but I sure thought so, especially when I took time to sit down and look at my family way, way, down below me. At least I thought they were down there a long way.
I saw that some adults were visiting. My grandfather was checking the desert floor for pretty and unusual rocks while my brothers searched for horned toads. My little sister just toddled about. And me? I took it all in, and I got scared. I could feel myself slipping slowly, oh so slowly, downward. As I tried to readjust my position, the rocks poked my hands really, really hard. I tried standing up without using my hands. I only slid more. Now, I no longer knew what to do. I fought back the tears that filled my eyes, and I slipped some more. "Big girls don't cry," I kept telling myself. In those moments, fear began filling me and my heart pounded. I knew I was going die. I was going to slide ALL the way down the gigantic MOUNTAIN. I was going to end up under a pile of very, very, sharp, pointy rocks, dead.
Then, as only a father can do, my dad headed for the base of the hill. Unbeknownst to me, he had been watching me climb. He had been watching me slip and my fear rise up. He knew I had reached a point that I needed help. As I fought the tears (this big girl won't cry) my dad made his way through the sharp, pointy rocks until he was by my side. He dried my tears (this big girl did cry) then scooped me up in his arms, and away we went. My hero-dad bravely slid and ran through the scree ALL the way down the huge MOUNTAIN (it wasn't really that far). Within seconds we arrived safely on the desert floor with the rest of the family.
Then, he put me down. I was no longer afraid, the tears were gone, and a smile was on my face.
To me, this is such a great example of the way the Lord has worked in my life. He is constantly watching my every move. Most of the time I'm not even aware of it. He knows when I am in situations that scare me. He knows when I have reached the point that I no longer know what to do. He knows when the tears come. And he know when to pick me up and carry me through the rocky situations. Then, when the tears are dried and the fear is gone, he sets me on my feet once more.
Living in God's goodness and care with a smile on my face,
Jan
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