There are shapes on the mountain top. At first there was just one. A minute figure – a wild dog perhaps. I could not work it out. But now there are more. The fact is we are lost and these mountains that looked so friendly in the midday light seem to be closing in on us in shapes and moods that threaten. I hear a stabbing growl. It vibrates in the wind from the high mountain. And it looses the fear inside of me.
I turn to my loved one and brim with all the doubt that is welling up inside. This is not my land. I have no place here. I have no crowns in this territory. Where is God in these desolate hills?
We stumble down the turrets of this castle edifice – like fugitives running for our lives. Eland antelope stare at us from a nearby hill. They are the lords of the land. I glance at the mountain silhouettes and see more shapes gathering. Fear now fluttering in me like a mad bird. Would they follow us those black imposing figures? What were they? Could they smell my fear?
How did we get here? The path, with promises of mountain treasure, deceptively lead us into a labyrinth. Hope gave our feet direction and light gave us illusions of security. Now in the dying light would we ever find our way out of this place? I start to run on the uneven ground, a beggar on wooden legs.
We push on, avoiding rocky outcrops with steep and dangerous cliffs. Surely around this bend we will see some landmark we recognise? I want to go back, the other path looked safer. I lose my sense of logic. I want anything but to be here – an instant teleportation to civilization would be nice. But I am stuck with this one-foot-in-front-of-the-other-reality. I know the only way to survive is to walk. The only person who can move me is myself and the encouragement of my husband who says, “This way.” I need to trust. Just simply trust that we will get out of here before the night’s black curtain falls.
After what seems to be a million steps and a million tufts of grass and shards of rock – we see a glimmer of what could be. This thing that we would normally overlook becomes a beacon of possibility. Oh blessed wire fence! I have never been so happy to see your humble wooden stakes! Still the uneven ground, still my ankle burns and pains to walk and yet how differently we talk. We know now that home is within our reach. We follow this simple line – a life line to civilisation and soon over the hill we begin to recognise the outline of chalet roofs in the distance and see the headlights of cars on country roads. We are out of our nightmare, we have seen our destination. The night closes in. We are not afraid anymore.
We cross the river and find the tarred road that leads to our car. All is suddenly restored. All is coming back to us now – like a gift, solid and familiar. It was a dream we were caught in for a few hours and it has passed. But how fragile my hope was and how fearful my heart! In unknown lands I hope to be stronger next time. I hope to carry my weight differently and not to be so intimidated by the sounds of dogs or baboons – whatever their cry. I hope to be better prepared next time. A torch perhaps? More faith perhaps? I hope in whatever terrain to keep alive the wonder and respect of God those mountains inspire.
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I guess in life we are constantly coming back to the sacred things, the sure things, the treasured things that we have known and held onto for most of our life. Its a journey and it does loops. And somehow the loop always goes “home”.
I have had seasons of experimenting in my theology and have drifted on seas of theories, creativity, ideas and even indifference at times. They have grown and broadened me. But I seem this year to have made a little journey back to those sure and certain things.
In January in a car back from Sweden I read the rebuke to the Ephesus church, “You have forsaken your first love. Remember the heights from which you have fallen! Repent and do the things you did at first.” At the time, I was feeling a bit lost. I was miles away from home and felt a bit like the Jamie Cullum song, “I’m all at sea / Where no one can bother me /Forgot my roots../Just me and my thoughts /Sailing far away.” The urge to return to harbour was reassuring to say the least.
So, I picked up my guitar again, found a church I liked going to and started attending regularly. Bizarrely, I was also ended up doing the job I started my career in – teaching. It was definitley a return to former things. I started to remember who I was. I remembered who I am.
Last month my boyfriend and I vistied Wales and came across this quaint stone church. It was a gorgeous sunny day. Yellow flowers were dotted over the grass and in the distance lay an expance of silent water stretching out for miles. With not much around us except the sea and the fields, the space felt almost timeless. People had been pilgrimaging there since the 12th century. The words in the church book seemed to carry a pointed weightiness. “Breathe in the peace and revelry of this ancient sanctuary.” We sat in silence and breathed!
I think we are called to constantly return to our beginnings, to be reminded of the simplicity, beauty and power of our faith and to be caught up again to the heights from which we seem so easily to fall.
“We are put on earth for a little space that we may learn to bear the beams of love” William Blake
The introduction to Thomas Merton’s “Contemplative Prayer” is staggering in its testimony to a life of love. The man who writes the introduction is a Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh and his admiration and connection with Thomas is clear through what he writes:
“It is hard to describe his face in words, to write down exactly what he was like. He was filled with human warmth. Conversation with him was so easy. When we talked, I told him a few things, and he immediately understood the things I didn’t tell him as well. He was open to everything, constantly asking questions and listening deeply. I told him about my life as a Buddhist novice in Vietnam, and he wanted it know more and more….We had moments of great happiness and peace together, and the ground of our happiness was true communion and understanding….It is a pleasure for me to write these lines to introduce his book.”
I can’t think of anything lovelier than to be praised by someone who doesn’t see life or faith exactly as you do, but someone who still recognises and has experienced the undeniable evidence of love in your life. What an honour that is, what an example to live up to!
