Mountain Climbing DNA

This past week, my husband and I were afforded an amazing opportunity.  We were able to attend a three-day conference in the beautiful Rocky Mountains in Keystone, Colorado.  Amazing hardly seems to sum it up.  Breathtaking; exhilarating; rejuvenating… All of those and so much more.  Author Mark Batterson says that “a change of pace + a change of pace = a change of perspective.”  This certainly proved true for me.  I found myself looking at things at new and fresh angles; contemplating the “what ifs” in a manner far removed from a worrisome or fear-based line of thinking; and simply drinking in the goodness of God.  What a glorious time!

On the morning we left to return home, we stopped in the quaint little town of Georgetown, Colorado for food and fuel.  While Cory was putting gas in the tank, I sat gazing out the window at the mountains, as I had for so many hours of our trip, mesmerized by their grandeur and beauty.  As I studied the opulent landscape, I sensed both a beckoning and a yearning.  It was as if the mountain before me called out to me, “Come!  Be among these trees.  Explore these rocks and crags.  What other treasures might abound upon these slopes?  Climb!  Ascend!”  My heart responded with desire to acquiesce.  This mountain before me seemed to exist, if for no other reason, than to be climbed, and I wanted to climb it!  Of course, I knew such an adventure was not to be had that morning.  First of all, we were under time constraints.  Secondly, while this was by no means the tallest peak we had seen on our get-away, it was a mountain nonetheless, and I was ill-equipped to tackle such a rigorous activity.  But were I to be perfectly honest, I knew the real reason I wouldn’t be climbing that mountain.  It’s because I’m a chicken baby.  You see, I recognize the desire I have to be adventurous; but I also recognize a voice within me that says, “It’s a mountain.  You might fall.  Off the side of a mountain.  And DIE!!!”

Isn’t this essentially the same struggle I have each day?  These dueling rivals for my heart- a life of adventure or a life of self-preservation- always at odds with one another.  It occurred to me that day as we drove away from Georgetown, mountain climbing is a part of our DNA.  Our spiritual DNA.  In the book of Romans, Paul says, “God’s Spirit beckons. There are things to do and places to go!  This resurrection life you received from God is not a timid, grave-tending life. It’s adventurously expectant, greeting God with a childlike ‘What’s next, Papa?’”  In other words, there are mountains before us to climb and explore and treasure to be found!  And my spirit responds, “Yes!  I want to climb!”

But fear would love to have the last word.  “It’s not safe,” it says.  “You might…”  “What if…”  “It’s too risky.”

Certainly in any adventure, there is an element of risk.  God’s not safe; he’s not tame.  Yet he’s entirely good, and I’m completely safe in his hands, regardless of any outcome.  I want to choose to yield to that which is a part of my spiritual makeup, to climb every mountain before me.  To simply play it safe, wondering what I might have seen at the summit, is an unbearable alternative to scaling the heights with Jesus.

  

"Woo hoo hoo me, Mommy?"

               “Woo hoo hoo me, Mommy?”  Big brown, pleading eyes looked up at me, little arms raised expectantly.  The music was playing, the beat was lively, and my precious boy knew this as an invitation to be swept up into my arms and twirled around in a silly, wonderful, beautiful mommy/son dance, jubilantly shouting out, “Woo hoo hoo!” as we spun ourselves dizzy.

            I don’t remember the last time we engaged in the “woo hoo hoo” ritual.  But there was indeed a last time.  My little boy is big now.  On the verge of teendom, he looks me in the eye now when we stand face to face.  His little boy features are being replaced with the chiseled features of a handsome young man.  He hasn’t reached his arms out to me to be gathered up in mine for quite some time, and quite honestly, I often find myself at a loss as to how I fit in his quickly growing and changing world.  I try to hold onto the fleeting vestiges of a little boy who needs his mommy, and I am met with the sullen response of a preteen who resents being held tightly when he wants to soar.  Oh, I know he loves me… but he doesn’t “need” me.  And what is a mom if she isn’t needed?

            The sweet voice of my heavenly Father whispers to my heart.  He reminds me that the definition of my life- who I am- is not “Mom.”  First and foremost, I am Lisa, his beloved, and he has created me to be his friend, to love, and to love through.  I am not defined by what I do, but through what I do, who I am shines forth.  And what my boy needs is a mom who loves Jesus and is being transformed into a more “real” version of her true self and to love him in light of that.  He reminds me that he’ll teach me how to love my son in the manner he needs to be loved at every stage of his life, and that who I am and what I do are significant.

            “Hey, Mom, can I show you this cool ship I just built?”  Handsome brown eyes look across at me, long arms holding a monster of a Lego creation.

            “Wow,” I reply, “that’s amazing!”

            A grin comes across his face, and he begins to show me all the details and intricacies of his masterpiece.  I listen to what he’s telling me and watch the excitement on his face as he shares with me, and what I hear is, “Woo hoo hoo me, Mommy?”  And I’m most happy to oblige.