Perhaps the most therapeutic thing this therapist could do
on a rare day off from both of her jobs is to meander down a well-known and
beautiful trail alone. The West Fork
Trail was an important part of my childhood and is now an important part of my
adulthood. I walked through that canyon
time after time with my family, and with my Girl Scout troop, and now with
friends both new and old throughout the years.
I have memories there with my grandparents not long before they died,
and we also walked this very trail to scatter the ashes of my dear
great-aunt. I’ve seen it covered in
icicles, and I’ve swum in its cool waters on warm summer days. 
Today, though, it is a perfectly Spring-y Spring day, and I
go it alone. I go not with the intent of going far (I’m hiking alone, after
all, which they say isn’t smart), but with the intent of sitting by a creek,
which has been my highest goal on this
otherwise-mostly-filled-with-tedious-tasks-“vacation.”
I feel silly at first, with my skinny jeans and freshly pedicured toes
and girly flip-flops, carrying a bag-that-is-mostly-a-purse, and bringing only
a small plastic water bottle that ends up leaking halfway through. I cross paths with hiker after hiker in their
boots and sneakers, wearing backpacks and hats and using walking sticks and
canteens. So yes, at first I feel
silly, but then the mood changes. I feel
instead like a weathered veteran among novices.
I imagine to myself that all these others are from other states and
countries, and consider that my native Arizonan feet are accustomed to this
trail, to the slippery rocks and sandy shores.
I feel simultaneously old and young – old because unlike years ago I
drove my car here, by myself, like a grown-up, on a week off from my two
professional jobs, and because I have walked this trail maybe 20 times
before. Young, though, because there is
a spring in my step and I feel carefree, and I quickly hop from stone to stone
to cross the cool creek where it intersects the trail. I’m briefly saddened by the effects of last
year’s forest fire – there are charred logs in many places, and the foliage is
much changed at the beginning of the trail – but am quickly cheered by how much
hasn’t changed, and by the resilience of the forest. There is still green, everywhere! The paradise that I’d feared would be
destroyed forever has only been altered a bit, and its beauty is still
astounding. There is new life springing
up already, too, and I’m reminded of the One who gives life abundantly.
After a couple creek crossings, I find a perfect spot by the
water, just as I’d hoped. I read a few
chapters of a novel, I pray, I close my eyes and listen and rest. I open them again and take pictures of the
creek and of the trees and of my toes, which make standard appearances in all
of my pictures of streams and oceans. I
watch a fly who gets caught in the current, I notice a butterfly in the sky
above. I notice, also, that some of the
brown and grey that remains in the forest is not after-the-fire brown and grey,
but is actually not-yet-fully-spring brown and grey, and that the trees are
covered with tiny beginnings of bright green leaves. I have my phone with me but am relieved that
it doesn’t work in the canyon. After a
couple hours, it is time to go, and for once it isn’t because of a pressing
to-do list or a scheduled meeting, but because the sun is getting lower, the
canyon is getting darker, and it feels right to head back out.
I keep thinking, on the way out, about the familiarity of
the trail, about the different landmarks that I’ve passed here during so many
different seasons of life, about how the landmarks change but are in so many
ways the same. I know the trail so well that I feel like even the flowers are
in familiar places, though of course with the changing seasons they are
different flowers than I’ve seen before. I’m again reminded of a God who gives
life, who is constant through change, who alone can create beauty out of
nothingness. I think of how many people
find Sedona to be spiritual in a new-agey sort of way, and how others may feel
they are closer to God here. I think of
the God that doesn’t dwell in Sedona specifically but is omnipresent and has chosen to dwell in the hearts of
men, and I’m thankful.
I’m thankful, too, because while it may be easier to reflect
on God and on His nearness here, it is also good to be reminded that he is just
as near when I am NOT on vacation. He is
near when I sit at my desk at work, fighting a never-ending battle with a to-do
list that just keeps growing. He is near
when I battle against discouragement in conflict with our staff or in pressure
from upper management. He is near when
anxiety rears its angry head again and I awake with an unwarranted sense of
dread. He is near when I ask hard
questions about a future that looks different than I might have once
hoped. He is near when life is just
plain hard. He is just as near in those
metaphorical valleys as He is in this luscious green one.
And yet…He does not reprimand me for needing reminders like
this one, for needing a break from the tedium to better rest in Him. He does not criticize the need for rest; no,
He is the Lord of the Sabbath. I think
of Thomas, who would not believe until He placed his fingers in Jesus’ wounds,
and I think of Jesus, who did not reprimand Thomas or force him to try harder
to believe without seeing, but instead allowed him to see and to touch, and
then commanded belief. I think of how
Jesus similarly has allowed me, today, to see what I needed to see. I
think of His kindness and am thankful for who He is, and for His choosing to
lavish His love on me.
Yes, I think today was just what I needed.
