The Climb

THE ASCENT

I hear my heart beat wildly in my ears.  Will I die here?  Will they have to carry me down?  I take five steps. Stop. Rest. Five more. Rest. I am silent. Focused.  Conserving breath for my next movement.  I search for the summit, hoping it is ahead. I reach it! It is false. 

I see no top, no end in sight.  I doubt I can make it.  I don’t think I can do this.  Leaning firmly on my hiking poles, I grip and pull myself forward. Again. Again. I climb. This is hard, the hardest thing I have ever done.  The altitude makes me dizzy.  

The ridge evens out.  The steepness finally ceases. I trek on slowly.  I see it!  The true summit is in view!  I have climbed to the top!  Looking across the expanse and beauty, the wind stealing my remaining breath, I feel exhilarated! I am on top of the world!

THE UNKNOWN

I climbed a mountain.  I had never climbed a mountain before; it was unfamiliar and scary and, ultimately, rewarding.  It took an abundance of energy and pain and focus.  And it took a lot of heart.  So much heart.

I did something difficult and persevered.  Something I thought I couldn’t do.  As I reflect upon this experience, I think it aptly describes another unfamiliar journey: the journey of separating my life from my child’s.  Sending my son on mission was a different experience than leaving him at camp or dropping him off at college. This new separation was unique; it signified the end of an era–the era when he regularly participated in family gatherings; the era when I could say goodbye with a kiss on his forehead; the era when he was close. These things still happen occasionally (and often during our Covid conundrum), but for now this separation defines my new normal.  He is far away.

THE REALIZATION

When the reality of his absence hit me about eight months into his first year away on mission, I felt like I was climbing a steep mountain.  The unfamiliar slog overwhelmed me at times, and I was unable to do anything but move forward. Slowly. My grief required me to focus. Everything was hard.  Wallowing in sadness (probably amplified by the additional departure of our youngest child to college), I couldn’t see the top. I kept trying to climb upward, thinking maybe this book, or that hobby, or those new clothes would help. But they didn’t.  They were poor substitutes–false summits–for closeness with my son. Gripping the supports of family, friends, and the promises of God, I continued to walk weakly. My world was spinning. I doubted I could make it.

THE REWARD

But I did. The raw emotions finally evened out. I continued to take one step, then another, then another. I have reached the top where the grief is not so suffocating.  Where I can catch my breath.  Now that my heartbeat is not so deafening, I can hear the gloriousness of God’s call to our kids.

The acceptance of my new life began as I learned more about mission and gained clarity about what my son was doing. No longer was his absence all about me or my loss.  It was about God and his glory. As I chose to take the long view of eternity instead of the short view of affliction, I have found my heart beating with amazement rather than exhaustion, my mind filled with gratefulness instead of grief.

Maybe your Goer journey has been less tumultuous or your footing more sure (I have large feelings and oversized life adjustments).  Or maybe this journey has been hard for you as well.  Either way, it takes heart.  So much heart.  Fellow Stayers, Let’s hike together!