The Rock

Marriage is a mountain climb. 

 

We start off at the bottom of this impressive, majestic mountain, back-packs fully-equipped with “everything we need.”  Friends and family wave us on, and we embark on our new adventure.  We’re young; we’re healthy; we’re strong.  Whatever this mountain holds, we are ready.  Everyone has told us as much. 

 

But after a while, the climbing takes its toll.  We discover there may have been a few items we neglected to put into our back-packs—either out of ignorance, or haste, or a little of both.  Our traveling partner gets grumpy on occasion, tired from the climb, homesick for those we left at the bottom of the mountain, and hurting from sore feet and back.  We don’t look quite as glamorous now as we did at the bottom of the mountain when we were wearing our finest climbing gear and posing for pictures with our friends and family.  Now, the hair is pulled back into a choppy pony-tail, and we both smell like sweat.  We are panting so hard we barely have the energy or the oxygen left to talk or enjoy the scenery together.  And just when we feel too tired to climb another step, our climbing partner complains of being weary and asks us to shoulder part of his burden!  The mountain looks so much more rugged and harsh up close than it did in the magazines and travel books we studied before we embarked.  Up close, this is nothing to brag about.  Jagged rocks, jutting out just far enough apart to make us stretch until our muscles ache;  impossibly steep cliffs that seem designed to send us reeling backwards; and the summit still so very far away.  What were we thinking? 

 

For the first half of the climb, we console ourselves that things will change.  The scenery, the grade of the mountain, the aching muscles—things will get better.  We’ll adjust, and we’ll finally find a pretty ridge somewhere to catch our breath and take a break. 

 

But things don’t change, except to get harder.  A subtle transformation threatens to overtake us on this trek:  We slowly are tempted to view our climbing partner as the force to be overcome, rather than the forces of the mountain.  "If it weren’t for his demands or his negligence . . ." "If not for her forgetfulness or her fragile emotions . . ."  If only our climbing partner didn’t come with so many liabilities, this trip wouldn’t be costing us so much time, energy, and enjoyment.  We would be so much farther up the mountain by now. 

 

 Along the way, we meet other travelers—some of them coming back down the mountain, telling us it is too hard of a climb to attempt, that the risks only increase the higher up you go.  Other travelers come along behind us who seem to have it so easy.  They jaunt merrily past us, and we secretly wonder if their trip is simplified because their climbing partner is more prepared for this trip, or if their climbing gear makes them more efficient and comfortable.   

 

And then the storms come—unexpected, scary, and demoralizing.  We search for an overhanging Rock to hide in, and in our search, the storm seems to take away everything but our very lives.  Our back-packs and our clothes are drenched, and some of our most valuable supplies were lost in the effort to find a place to hide.  The bravado of our send-off at the bottom of the mountain seems so far away, so long ago.  Shivering under that Rock, we evaluate our ambition and reckon with the frightening prospect ahead:  Will we continue to forge ahead, or do we just count our losses and turn back? 

 

But we press on. 

 

Not because the journey is easy, or always fun, or because there is anyone to cheer us on now. Mountain climbing can be lonely.  There are no stadiums for mountaineers.  We press on because this is a sacred mountain, designed to be climbed only up, never down.  We press on because our climbing partner needs us.  We press on because we promised God we would, and we never break a vow.

 

Ultimately, we press on because it’s the Rock Who keeps us going.  Our supplies are of no real use now, and our strength is small.  And that’s when we discover the real joy of this mountain:  The Rock is enough.  It wasn’t our own strength, or our supplies, or the send-off that made this mountain attainable.  It was that Rock. 

 

 

“From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee,

when my heart is overwhelmed: 

lead me to the Rock that is higher than I. 

For thou hast been a shelter for me . . .” 

(Psalm 61:2,3)