For her birthday, my oldest daughter Brooke asked if I would accompany her on a hike, high in the alpine mountains above Hyrum, Utah.

First you have to know that she is more than twenty years younger than I am – and has always had incredible energy and drive. She accomplishes more in a few hours than I do in an entire day.

I love the mountains, and I love her, so I willingly accepted. I did not take into account that, due to my recent schedule, I have not been consistent in my daily exercising (so I am somewhat out of shape), and that hikes usually entail significant uphill trails which can be pretty demanding. I only envisioned the joy of being out in nature with my daughter, and I was excited.

As we headed up the steep rocky trail, it very quickly became apparent that she was setting a pace I was unaccustomed to – and one that I would not be able to hold for very long. The path followed a stream that gurgled over rocks and tree roots, and there was frequent welcome shade where the tall trees’ branches reached over the trail. It was beautiful, and I drew strength from the beauty that surrounded us. But that strength was not quite enough, and after not too long, I guess she perceived I was beginning to ‘lose steam’.

“Let’s rest in this shade…” she graciously offered as we arrived in a cool glade of aspen. Her husband and my youngest daughter were with us, and they seemed almost as relieved as I felt when we stopped to catch our breath.

After a brief rest, we were back on our way. And although I loved being out in all of that breath-taking beauty, I wished I could slow down a bit! The pace demanded too much of my focus just to keep climbing, one step after another.

Brooke thoughtfully stopped us for frequent rests that I know she didn’t need. She still seemed full of energy when, after a few hours, we had hiked through meadows of wildflowers, groves of pines, hillsides of aspen and sheer rock cliffs. We finished the hike and headed down toward the car,  filled with a deepened appreciation for the beauties of this world.

But I have decided that I am at a place in life where, although I still love hiking, I now go with a different objective. No longer am I driven to get to the top of the mountain, or the end of the trail, or even to the wonder that the guidebook promises is just around the next bend.  I now enjoy a slower pace, and I am prone to halt more frequently to study the rock that, in earlier years, I would have simply stepped over. My eyes are less focused on the montain top and instead are drawn this way and that, eager to study a wildflower that beckons to be smelled, an unusual leaf, or the butterfly that flits from one blossom to the next. I am lifted by their beauty, and I am renewed by being surrounded by God’s abundant creations. I am content to sit and listen to the breeze rustling the tops of the giant pines while others continue the climb to the top of the trail.

I believe that trauma, loss, discouragement and grief require us to slow down and pull back from the frantic pace of daily life, and can even be an invitation to look for the small things that witness to us that God is aware of us and our struggles, and that He desires to lift us with all that He created specifically to bring beauty into our lives, and peace into our hearts.

Of course He knew we would meet with difficulty in this life, and I believe He planned  to surround us with things that would give us healing, hope and courage, if we would only open our eyes to them.

So if you are seeking that healing, and if you find sometimes that your hope and courage are failing you, slow down. Don’t let the length of life’s journey discourage  you, but rather, focus just on today, and open your eyes and find one of God’s messages of hope – a beautiful view of a mountain, meadow, or lake;  the song of a bird outside your window, or the intricate beauty of a flower.

Choose a slower pace – and find hope!

-Roslyn

So says Alan Christofferson, the main character in Richard Paul Evans’ new book, The Walk.

Does any one of us know what the future holds? I can think of so many times in my life when I had a plan all laid out for the next weeks, months, and even years – and then, in the blink of an eye, everything changes. A phone call; a chance meeting; a turn of events, and life is altered forever.

After Alan lost his wife, his business, and his home, he decided to walk across the country to the place furthest from where his dreams all died. As he stops each night, he writes in his journal. His entries are brief, but telling. One night he wrote, “We can be victims of circumstance or masters of our own fate…” and I thought, “How can you write that when you have just lost everything, through no fault of your own? How can you say you are the master of your fate?”

Then it hit me. Alan had learned what Viktor Frankl taught: “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of human freedoms – to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances – to choose one’s own way.”

The night his wife died, Alan’s journal entry read simply, “All is lost.”

Shortly thereafter, he sat in despair at the kitchen table with two bottles of pills, contemplating taking his own life. He could find no reason to live, and was ready to end it all quickly, when he heard, from somewhere, the words,

“Life is not yours to take.”

Then, he thought he heard the voice of his late wife, McKale, whisper, “Live.”

I believe that is what each of our loved ones would say were they able to communicate with us. Not to simply exist, but to live with purpose; to choose our own way.

Again from Frankl: “Man does not simply exist, but always decides what his existence will be, what he will become in the next moment.”

I believe we too can make that choice, and determine who we will be and what we will do with whatever circumstances we are presented.

There will be times we too will say, “I do not know what lies ahead of me,..” but in those times, we will also be able to say, “…but I do know what I want to become.”

That decision will change everything.

The book is about Alan Christofferson, a man who has everything, and how, through a series of tragic losses, he ends up homeless and begins a journey, walking across the country. At first, he walks to get away from everything in his past – but as he continues, he learns lessons that change his life, and realizes he is really walking to face his future. In his words, “This is what I’ve learned. We can spend our days bemoaning our losses, or we can grow from them. Ultimately the choice is ours. We can be victims of circumstance or masters of our own fate, but make no mistake, we cannot be both.”

“We are all on a walk. Perhaps not as literal as mine, but a walk all the same . . .”

It hit me in the early hours of the morning as I finished the epilogue that he is right. I too am on a walk, and I’ve been shuffling my feet. Some days I have even refused to take one step. I had once again slipped into that seductive passivity of victim mode.

Yet I have opportunities before me, all around me, that, if I embraced them, could burn more of the dross out of my soul, and help me to become a better tool in God’s hands. On the other hand, if I continue to resist them, that dross will grow darker and thicker, becoming even more permanently adhered to the chambers of my heart.

I want to grow. I want to be able to look back on this time of my life with no regrets, knowing I truly did the best I could. But I will need God’s help. The compassion and charity I need are not within me, but are gifts only He can give. I pray He can soften my hardened, selfish heart and as promised in Ezekiel 36:26, replace it with a new one.

There are more lessons to be learned from this powerful book. I will share them as I continue on my walk, and encourage you on yours.

Stepping out, once more,

Roslyn

Just two days ago my daughter and I noticed that the birds were gathering in our neighborhood and chirping cheerily, and we rejoiced at one more harbinger of the long-awaited release from the cold.

But this morning I awoke to grey skies, and soon snowflakes began falling steadily.

I went out to feed the cat, and heard the birds scolding the snow as they burrowed into the tall hedges surrounding the yard. By evening, our world was once more smothered in white, and we had donned sweaters and wool socks to ward off the extra chill in the house.

Grief seems to have seasons. There is the Autumn of grief, when we are numb from the shock and where colors fade and all things that bring beauty to life begin to wither and die. We sense that what is ahead will be long and cold.

Then comes Winter. The first flakes of snow herald a long season of grey, lifeless days with a constant chill in the air and in our souls. Since my husband died, at the approach of Winter I often feel dread at facing another string of months without warmth or color or life.

Mid-Winter follows; the darkest, coldest part of our grief, with no visible sign of release. The chill we feel is bone-deep, and darkness comes early and stays late. We have no control over when the storms will come, when they will rage with so much fury that we cannot travel out, when we have to build our own private “snow cave” and crawl in, curled up in the fetal position until it feels safe to come out again.

I heard from a dear friend the other day, mourning the tragic death of her husband. She mentioned her reluctance to go out in public because of the probability that she will end up weeping uncontrollably at any time. Those storms are so unpredictable! Not wanting to expose ourselves, nor to subject others to the awkward onslaught, we often choose to stay sequestered at home where we face them – or sometimes, just submit to them – in private.

This is the season when it is hardest to believe that Spring will come. Can there be healing, when one’s heart aches so profoundly that it is hard to breathe? What is there to look forward to when every glance out the window is greeted by bare branches and a dull, colorless landscape, matching the landscape of our soul?

I have found that I have to remind myself that Spring will come, however. Humans naturally crave warmth, and light, and color, and the first thaw in late Winter awakens a hope that maybe, even for us, there might be life again.

Grief does have its Spring. The ache in the heart gradually lessens, and though we never forget the pain of losing our loved one, one day we wake up and realize we didn’t weep in the night. We see a bird, or a flower, or a sunset, and smile. Something has changed so that beauty and warmth are entering our heart again, and our soul begins to take courage.

If you are in mid-Winter in your grief, hold on. Grieve, fully, and allow those storms to rage. Believe that they are cleansing and healing, and that once the tears are dried, you are that much closer to Spring. Each torrent allows the body and soul to purge another layer of the trauma and deep disappointment we have felt, and leaves room in our heart for light, and beauty, and hope.

The snow will melt. The sun will shine, and flowers will bloom. Hold on, and believe!

Some women are abandoned by a spouse who no longer values the vows taken years before, and still others have had to seek escape from a marriage that has become life-threatening.

No matter the cause, there was always that moment when the realization hit – things are not going the way I had planned, and they are not in my control. We sometimes approach life thinking that our plans and hopes and dreams create the path we will tread. And although it is good to make plans, and to have hope and to dream dreams, life has a way of reminding us that we live in an imperfect world. There will be unexpected, unplanned events that will change the course of our life, and that serve as a reminder that often, life hangs by a thread, and we are completely at the mercy of a loving Father.

Just such an event occurred in my life Tuesday morning. My son-in-law called to tell me that my daughter had gone into labor two months early, and had just given birth to a tiny, three-pound, fourteen-ounce baby girl.

I changed all my plans for the week and made the long drive to the neighboring state where she and her husband attend the university. As I hurried into the hospital I tried to prepare myself for what I might see, but when my son-in-law guided me into the Newborn Intensive Care Unit, it took my breath away to see how small she really was.

She was laid on a slanted warming table, with monitors taped to her chest and stomach, a hood attached to her head that held two oxygen tubes in place over her nose, a tube in her mouth, another monitor attached to one foot, and an IV in her hand.

My daughter was standing at the side of the table, gently stroking the little bit of soft dark hair that was exposed through the hood. We embraced, and as I looked into her weary eyes and saw signs of the trauma and shock she had been through, I perceived that same thought: ‘”Things are not going the way I had planned, and they are not in my control.”

That little life is in the hands of God, and every moment she lives is a miracle. We are so grateful for the technology that is helping her to overcome the huge disadvantages of not being able to develop fully in the womb. But this afternoon as I walked the hospital halls, my mind full of the many difficulties she faces, I realized that there are probably many times when our own lives are in a dangerous place, and we may not even be aware of it.

One mis-step; one turn in the wrong direction, one random act of a complete stranger, or one natural disaster and our lives could be drastically changed or even ended.

We truly are in the hands of God. Though life takes unexpected turns, and though we feel totally out of control, we need to ask ourselves, whose hands would we rather be in? I believe we are learning the lesson of trust on this mortal journey, and I seem to be a slow learner. But each time I am in a frightening situation and I remember Who is really in charge, I can find peace as I submit to His will and change my plans to more closely follow His.

As John Nicholson said, “We must the onward path pursue – as wider fields expand to view, and follow Him unceasingly, Whate’er our lot or sphere may be. *

With you, in the hands of God,

Roslyn

*Come Follow Me, p.116 Hymns