wordfull wednesday: 39 summers

I have a really hard time remembering things.

Most of my thirty-nine summers have passed into the watercolors of my mind–I remember hues, smells, sounds–bits and pieces–but they are all jumbled together into a cacophony of moments that have blended indistinctly.

There is only one summer that I can say is truly vivid.

That summer is my favorite.

It started with the sound of rain on our green tin roof.

Do you know how beautiful the rain sounds after not hearing it for eight months?

Yes, after eight months of winter in the Tetons, we had almost forgotten the sound of rain.  But, it was June, and there it was.

And we ran outside, laughing and feeling the rain on our faces, and I remember thanking God for allowing me to remember the miracle of a simple rain.  And for allowing my children to experience the same thing.

But, when you live next to a mountain that men cannot make unholy, it’s hard to forget that God is everywhere.

I can recall with absolute clarity how it felt to hear the roaring and rushing of the creek as we looked out at the midnight summer sky awash with stars.

We went hiking that summer in our matching hiking boots on little, uneventful hikes at the church-owned ranch in the valley.  One day, we were all together, and I was having a really hard time making it up a really steep incline to where my husband was waiting for me.  Standing next to him was our little 2 1/2 year old daughter, and I looked up at them and said,

“I don’t think I am going to make it.”

Together, they began chanting a little cheer for me:

“Go, mommy go!  Go, mommy go!”

They clapped their hands and shouted it over and over again.  I will never forget that moment.  I think it had something to do with the fact that the sky was the most heavenly blue.

I made it up the hill.  And they hugged me and kissed me as if I had scaled the Grand itself.

That summer, my husband had gotten me out of the house one afternoon so that I could hike at Badger Creek alone.  I had never done that before. Hiked without children.  I was just going to take a little walk around the ranch, really.  It wasn’t too hard or dangerous at all.

So, I did it.

It was breezy when I got to the ranch, and as I started climbing past the lodge, the blue skies began to darken ever so slightly, and the wind picked up a bit.  I hiked a little further, and saw clouds gathering at the far northern end of the valley.

Have you ever experienced a summer storm in the Tetons?  It’s an amazing, terrifying, awe-inspiring display of power.  Something best watched from inside the house with a good book.  I decided I would cut my hike short and turn around.

But, I couldn’t.  I felt distinctly that I needed to go a little further.

So, I did.

I climbed up another hill, and as I came to the top of the rise, I could see the whole northern end of the valley–and I could see the storm literally growing before my eyes.  The clouds were boiling and thick, and expanding.  Flashes of lightning tore through the miles wide darkness, and I thought I should be getting home.  But, I couldn’t.  I felt like my whole soul was being drawn to a kind of prayerful pondering as I stood there.

The Tetons, which had been visible a few minutes before, were disappearing into the inky blackness of this terrific storm.  And still I stood there.

And, as I stood there, a question was posed to me by my Father:

“Are you bigger than the storm?”

My first thought was absolutely not.  I mean, what besides a storm could swallow up the Tetons?  No, I wasn’t bigger than the storm.

But, the question persisted:

“Are you bigger than the storm?”

I reached out with my whole soul toward that storm, toward that question, and I begged and pleaded for an answer.  And it came.

“If you hold My hand, you are bigger than the storm.”

At that moment, I felt it.  His hand in mine, and the question came again:

“Are you bigger than the storm?”

I was shaking at this point–waves of absolute conviction were pouring over me that yes, with God’s hand in mine, I was bigger than any storm.

Then, the most awe-inspiring, terrifying thought came to me.  If I knew it, and I knew God knew I knew it, I could not deny it.

At that moment, I realized that no matter what storm was going to come into my life, He was telling me I was bigger.  I was stronger.  And I could not let that storm triumph over my spirit.

I remember the smell of the rain coming before the rain came, and as the first giant drops stung my arms and face, I also remember yelling out to that sky:

“I am stronger than you. I can overcome you.”

I paused, because I realized that I was making a covenant with God.  I was promising Him that I would put my hand in His, and I would conquer something bigger than the Tetons.  And then I shouted,

“Whatever is coming, I can overcome it!”

And then, I turned around and stumbled to my car.  I got in, and as the rain came down, I sat there, wondering what was coming.  And, at the same time, in absolute awe at the greatness of God, and the sure knowledge that whatever was coming, He was preparing me for it.

I remember that we got our car fixed on the other side of the valley, and on the way home I bought M&M’s for the kids.  Something I never do.  But, Joy loved chocolate, and the M&M’s delighted her.  It was the first and only time she ever had them.  I’m glad she got to try them.

And then, there was a moonless summer night and millions of stars and the sound of crickets and sand cranes in the dark and she slipped past me and Joy went home to her Heavenly Father.

And the memory of the storm was in front of me and my covenant with God that I would place my hand in His.  That I would be stronger.

And I was.

Because Christ alone could not only save me, but make me stronger than the soul stretching, mind numbing, breathtaking heartache of that dark time.

He walked with me.  He spoke with me. He wept with me. And He sent angels to me.

The summer days after that were so beautiful.  Lots of sunshine. And knocks on the door.  Lots of them.  But, one that was different.  A kind of shy knocking.

I opened the door.

There in front of my was an old rough and tumble cowboy.  He was our friend.  Not a man of many words, he was tough, but had the heart of a poet.

There he was with that startling blue sky behind him that matched perfectly his kind eyes, which were filled with tears.  In his hand, he held a vase full of the most beautiful flowers I had ever seen.

Flowers from his garden that he had picked and wanted to bring over to me.

He stood there.  He didn’t speak.  He just handed me the flowers and tipped his cowboy hat and finally said simply, “I’m so sorry.”

I hugged him.  And then he walked away.

It was then that I realized it would always be my most beautiful summer, and that I will always be able to see it–living and breathing in my mind.

That summer was the last time in mortality we were together as a family.  The last time I touched her.  The last time I heard her laugh.  The last time I cleaned up Chapstick and Desitin and toilet paper unrolled by her.  And it lives on when I need it to be there for me.

My favorite summer memory is Joy.  And, it finds me so often in my journey.

How many times have I been struggling and the memory comes back:

“Go, mommy go!  Go, mommy go!”

How often have I needed to call on the memory of the miracle of  the first rain or the millions of stars or the beauty that was that summer to get me through the summers that have followed when beauty seemed forsaken and miracles far away and the stars had all vanished from the sky?

How often have I needed more than anything to remember that I am bigger than the storm, as long as my hand is in His?

No, my most beautiful summer will never fail me.  And that’s why it’s my favorite.

Thanks, Cocoa, for the inspiration!

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Tagged as: miracles, wordfull wednesday