A Backpacking Analogy

I was standing at the top of the stairs, baby hanging from one hip, a basket of laundry hanging from the other.  Downstairs my six year old was sobbing over a math worksheet gone awry while my four year old lay on the toy-room floor screaming, "I don't care if you never let me out of here. I'm NOT going to clean this mess up!"  The crockpot was on, but only half of dinner's ingredients had made their way into the pot and, at close to noon, I still hadn't brushed my teeth.


I hate this!  The thought just kind of fell into my brain from out of nowhere.  It sounded familiar.  In fact, the whole scene had a sort of de-ja-vu feel about it.  Only, in my memory, the load I carried was different:  a forty-pound pack hanging off my back instead of baby and laundry hanging from my arms.  And I was perched precariously on a rocky ledge instead of bracing myself against the banister on the upstairs landing.  

They called it The Drainpipe.  Ten miles into a fifteen-mile hike on the third day of a week-long hiking trip, and I found myself half way up a narrow, steep climb, hanging exhausted about ten feet off the ground with another 15 or so left to climb.  "C'mon," I tried to cheer myself on, "it's not like it's Mount Everest!"  But all I could come up with was, "I hate this!"

Backpacking was a passion of mine as a single, adventurous young adult and I would have told you on any given day that I absolutely loved it.  It's the same thing I would tell you, should you ask me about this parenting journey I now find myself on.  But on every single backpacking trip I was ever on, there was always that moment:  the one where I could not come up with one single reason as to why I ever thought strapping excessive amounts of weight onto my shoulders and walking for days seemed like a good idea.

On this particular trip, it was The Drainpipe that got to me.  But half way up a precipice one does not have many options for a change of plans, so I climbed on.  The last of The Drainpipe only brought me to another long scramble upward, this one plagued with brambles and bushes that scraped my hands and snagged at my Columbia hiking pants.  Then suddenly the ground evened out, the brambles and shrubs thinned and disappeared and I found myself in a clearing.  A clearing at the top of the world.  There was sunshine and fresh air and below my feet miles of forests, rivers, and, way off in the distance, the unending blue waters of Lake Superior and I fell in love with the journey all over again.  Already the exhausting climb was fading from my memory as I dropped my pack and stretched out on an over-sized boulder.  Tears, bloodied palms, blistered feet - I'd do it all over again for that view, for that euphoric feeling of accomplishment and overcoming. 

In that parallel moment, at the top of the stairs, I was blessed with the reminder that perseverance brings great rewards.  Anger, despair, and quitting are not options with rewards.  Taking a deep breath and focusing on the next step upward - that is where gains are made.  Focusing on where I want to go and intentionally taking a step toward the goal is what it takes to know that feeling of a job well done.  Where are my priorities at this moment?

I dropped the laundry basket.  That can wait.  The baby seemed to sense my tension fade away and grabbed my face with both her little hands, babbling a happy babble into my face before laying her head on my shoulder and falling fast asleep.  Downstairs I rummaged through the children's  bookcase.  William J. Bennett's Children's Book of Virtues had the perfect story for this teachable moment.  I took the two crying children onto my lap on the couch and we read Someone Sees You.  The sobbing turned to hiccups by the time the story was over and, as I closed the book, they were ready to talk about how Jesus must feel when He looks down on us in our moments of anger, disobedience, and discouragement.  We all agreed that we had not spent that morning working toward our ultimate goal of this life's climb:  the goal of bringing glory to God.

They returned to their tasks with smiles on their faces and renewed focus, but not before wrapping wiry arms around my neck and middle and exclaiming, "You are the best mom ever!" as I tickled their knees and we all tumbled to the floor in a big happy "hug pile".

Sleepless nights, 18-hour work days, unending piles of laundry - I'll do it every day for moments like this one!  And, when it seems like all chaos has broke loose, may I have the ability to look toward the ultimate goal - that flat boulder at the top of the world - when my children will walk through life hand-in-hand with Jesus until He calls them home to say, "Well done, my good and faithful servants!"