A Friday in January

"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, whence cometh my help." The hills have always brought me peace, which is odd considering I'm terrified of heights. I run here when my heart hurts, and it hurts today. I was here last October for a similar reason, and the golden-leaved trees spoke to me of the beauty in change. The trees are bare now, and the green kudzu that lined the roads is relegated to its winter status of drab brown vines, revealing the underlying foundation of its foliage sculpturing to be dead and decaying trees and buildings. The shadows of the naked trees turn the road into a UPC barcode and the roadside into an Ansel Adams homage. But whether leafed or bare, the trees speak to me of eternity and remind me that emptiness will be filled.

Usually, when coming to "my" waterfall, I leave home before sunrise, aiming to arrive as soon as the park opens, hoping to avoid both the crowds and the Georgia heat. But this is a Friday in January, when everyone is finally back at work after the holidays, so crowds are unlikely. When I left home at 830am, it was 26F, so overheating should not be an issue either. My planned arrival today is around 11am; by then the temps should be in the mid to upper 40s, if not more.

I stopped again for breakfast at Wendell's, the restaurant I discovered in October. They don't remember me, of course, but I remember them and the food/service is as good today as it was then. I told them today that as far as I'm concerned, they are now the only restaurant in Helen. As I follow the two-lane road out of Helen, I get so caught up watching a huge bird in flight (Heron? Maybe, but I never saw his long legs streaming out behind like a kite tail, so I'm not sure) that I missed my turn, and didn't realize it until I had gone two miles out of my way. The mistake was easily corrected, and soon I was making another turn, onto Anna Ruby Falls Rd. I love this road. The two lanes twist and climb, guarded on either side by trees that occasionally allow glimpses of the lake.

I normally drive the part in silence, windows open to hear the wind whispering sweet nothings to the trees. But Mike's new CD has been playing since I pulled out of my driveway some 80 miles ago, and it brings me such comfort that i let it play until I park. Looking around, I realize that even with my later than usual arrival, there are only ten other cars in the lot, and at least two of those belong to staff.

This seems to be my day to go against tradition. Instead of immediately starting the climb to the Falls, I walked away from that path, heading toward the picnic tables near the stream. There are large rocks jutting from the middle of the stream. I would love to sit on one and just listen to the wind and the water, hearing the voice of peace.

In summer this is a wading area, making the rocks accessible, but this is a Friday in January, and even in my less coherent moments, I have sense enough to not wade into the mountain-fed stream. Still, I wish I could, and as I sit on a picnic bench I hear Mike's words in my heart.

"I fell down in the valley of the shadow of death, and was so afraid I couldn't catch my breath."

Such appropriate words for this week, and this day. I had no idea when I bought Mike's CD that I would soon be walking through my own valley of shadow, but God knew and provided comfort in the music of a friend.

"I had to sit down upon a rock and breathe the promise."

I cannot sit on the rock in the stream, but I can easily cling to the Rock who is Christ, soaking his shoulder with my aching heart.

"I am persuaded that nothing in all creation can ever separate us from you."

Let that be true for Tom, I beg. I'm glad the picnic tables are empty, because the tears are flowing now, my over-burdened heart releasing its surprised pain into the comfort of God's creation.

Wiping my eyes on my sleeve, I decide it's time to see the Falls, reversing my steps until I reach the trail on the other side of the visitor center, and start my ascent. The hike to the Falls is normally fairly easy for me, but today it taxes my strength and I have to avail myself of their strategically placed bench before my legs and lungs give out. I don't know if it's winter idleness or the weight of my emotions dragging me down.

I am well within your hills, Father – where is your help? How do I silence the unending roar of "should haves" that blast through my heart, ripping my fragile peace to shreds? Why do I never get to say goodbye? What is your lesson to me in that? My heart aches, Lord, and the pain falls like liquid diamonds squeezed one by one from my eyes.

My soul is heavy with sorrow still, the burden almost more than I can carry. A song from Mike's senior project plays in my memory: "And you say, Come to me, all ye who are weary and heavy-laden, for I will give you rest! Learn of me, for my yoke is easy and my burden is light."

I'm coming Lord, crawling in my heart, knees and hands bruised by falling onto the heartbreaking reality of a fallen world, where death claims all we love. I cling to your promise of an everlasting life nestled in the Father's love, and am grateful for that promise. Mike's songs are ringing in my head, both old and new, and I am blessed by the gift of words you have given him and your promise that reigns triumphant through all of them.

The breeze rustles the trees, soft counterpoint to the water tumbling down the rocky cleft. Creation sings your praise, Lord, bidding me join them in an alleluia of love, but my tight throat prevents the words escaping. My heart and mind then, will proclaim what my lips cannot.

Alleluia!

God is great and good,

Giver of all life and love.

Alleluia!

Tears flow again with the words, as the sun warms my back and brightens my day. God is still God, still King of Creation, still the Abba I can run to with my scraped and bruised heart. He holds all of creation in his love, including my loved ones. I start again on the trail, steps and heart lighter, the sound of falling water drawing me ever onward and upward to my goal.

I reach the Falls at last, thundering from recent rains, water jubilantly cascading from heights to depths. There's a lesson there too, about enjoying the ride even when it plunges into valleys.

I have no problem enjoying rides on quiet rivers shaded by stately trees. But rapids and cataracts dishearten me, and I find myself clinging instead of resting. The water drowns the voices of the other visitors here, nature's white noise machine ensuring I am alone with my thoughts.

My thoughts are sleepy now, like a still pool before the rapids.

They will flow with the current again, leaving the stillness to bubble along the streambed, sometimes chaotic like rapids between pools of serenity, but always they will focus on the giver of life, looking up into his hills and finding his peace.

As I wend my way down the trail to my car, I notice that even in the midst of winter's death, the rhododendrons promise the new beginning that follows every apparent ending.

I'm not yet rejoicing in this stubborn heart of mine, but my soul is lighter and the song in my head is praise, not dirge. My weeping may endure for another night or ten, sorrow cascading from my eyes, but joy returns in due time. I was blessed with the love of a brother of my heart; that love and blessing will never fade, and Tom will always be alive in my heart.