Over the first weekend in August, we went camping in what was loosely themed our third annual family retreat - “loosely” because (1) a grandson got sick, so his parental units and siblings had to stay home, and (2) because we think retreat sounds younger and trendier than plain ol’ “reunion.”
We camped on our niece’s and nephew’s property just outside Capitol Reef. It was beautiful! The weather cooperated (mostly) and no one had to go to an emergency room, so I counted the whole thing a general success, even though we were desperately missing one 5-person subgroup.
Does August make you feel like you're hanging from a tree branch just over the river rapids of life while the white-capped waves grab at your feet? August feels that way to me. On the hiking path of the year, August is that point just over the summit where I must dig in my heels at the downhill pull as the gravity of the second half of the year builds momentum into a furious tumble to December 31st.
I feel pressure in August from every goal and every project I said I would complete by December. And everyone knows that the second half goes much more quickly. Suddenly, the ticks of the clock sound in my ears and the beats of my heart conducting the rhythm of my life tap their baton on the stand of my schedule and indicate with a flourish that the tempo must increase to allegro, and pronto.
Well, I purposely set aside my August Angst to enjoy the weekend with my family. My Apple Watch battery died and I didn’t care. I didn’t set a rigorous schedule of events. I just decided to play games and color pictures of Paw Patrol puppies with my grandchildren and point out the wonders of nature. I watched my husband begin an oil landscape with his mother’s treasured easel. There were games of corn hole and kids catching grasshoppers, the marvel of twin calves sauntering by with their protective mama, and a set of sand hill cranes who flew overhead promptly at 8:00 pm each night on their way home to the boggy pond around the bend.
And then, there was what was supposed to be a “short” 4-wheeler ride to Fish Creek Lake with our niece, our daughter and son-in-law, and their dog. Yes, the dog rode, too.
It all started out great, until we hit some very steep inclines covered in small rocks. And then it rained and those small rocks got slippery and the ground got muddy and rain filled the ruts and turned them into how-deep-could-they-be? puddles. We made it to just a quarter mile before the lake, when one of those puddles spanned the entire path. With firm perseverance, my husband dismounted our trusty mode of transportation and said “Let’s just walk the rest of the way,” which is all fine and good, except that the last stretch of path included another steep rock-covered incline.
The problem lay in the rocks, because I have lousy depth perception. So, whether going up or down, I see the rocks, but I’m not really sure how much of a step up or a step down it is to get over them. I rectify this on the way up by miscalculating and stubbing my toe or stumbling ahead. On the way down, I tap-step, which means I feel downward with my toes, to see how deep the space really is, before planting my foot. It’s a clunky knee-wrenching process, but it gets me down the hill, eventually. But this time, something different happened.
Instead of letting me toe-tap my way down the trail, my husband walked directly in front of me with his hands behind him, holding mine. It was still slow, but not nearly as slow as I would’ve moved on my own.
I watched his feet and where he placed them on the path and I went right behind him, stepping in the same places his feet had just vacated. I didn’t have to toe-tap to check for drop-offs. The term “sure-footed” took on new meaning. My husband is a kind man to walk slowly and hold my hands and lend me the gift of his depth perception.
So, here’s the biggest metaphor of all. It isn’t just August that beckons us to pick up the pace. It’s all of life. And most of the time we don’t know which steps to take to get safely down the hill. The terrrain is rough and the drop-offs are camouflaged. But, we have a guide who, if we will only take His hands and humble ourselves to accept His help, will hold us steady and lend us His depth perception. He’ll show us where it’s safe to step. He’ll go before us and show us where to plant our feet.
He won’t just point the way, He’ll say to us, “Come, follow me.” He knows the path. He knows our timeframe angst. And he knows how to get us down the hill, and back to our Heavenly Father, with sure-footed success.
With this thought in mind, I enjoyed the ride back to camp, with it’s rainfall and muddy splashes and the wind in our faces, because even with all the angst of August, this world is a beautiful place, and if we feel comfortable on the path, we can take the time to look up from it, and see the beauty in the journey.
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