Grief-Climbing

 I've thought back often to that sunny, Texas afternoon. About how the hike felt so metaphoric for what we'd walked through together up to that point. How we'd summited so many impossibly hopeless situations side-by-side and found miracles along the way. How we'd lifted each other up when the journey got tough, taken care of one another and never, ever left each behind...  Even when injury and distance and time threatened to end what we shared, we always found a way - a way forward. 

It had taken us six long years to meet in person, Alex and me. And the fact that our loyalty as best friends had sustained us through so much was cause for celebration as we took to that spot called "Enchanted Rock" and started the assent. Always thinking of everything, he had his military-issue backpack filled with anything we might need, even though our projected time up and back was relatively short. Everyone needs a protector on the journey, and he made sure he would be just that. Just in case. 

As we made our way upward, I couldn't help thinking of how many mountains it felt like we'd already climbed. We'd walked through mental breakdowns, a serious combat injury, his divorce, and so much more. Each thing had been its own Everest to conquer. And yet, togetherness...camaraderie...hope...love...community sustained when so much else felt like it was falling apart. There was always an open line to just call up and share. Vent when it felt like nobody else understood, ask for advice when it seemed like there was no clear direction, grieve common loss when it looked like nobody else cared anymore, offer presence even if words couldn't express. 

It's a known truth that you can't survive your hardest climbs unless you have a solid partner to journey with, yet most of us try so hard to summit alone. We leave ourselves exposed to the elements and we try to take on our hardest moments without others around who have done the hard climbs also. Demise is always a higher possibility if you travel by yourself. 

Somehow, it seemed appropriate that he summited just before I did. That he was waiting for me to get there and encouraging me to get to the top so I could see the view. I didn't know how prophetic that would prove to be. I'll never forget standing there at the top and seeing the 360 degree scenes from all around. So strangely and wonderfully beautiful. Being by my friend's side and breathing in thanks to God that all the worst things had no proved final. That we were still here and He was, too... never leaving, always hoping. 

How on earth could I have ever imagined that my soul would be asked to descend into depths of grief that no rock-climb, however supposedly "enchanted" could ever simulate... Darkness that felt impenetrable. Sorrow that seemed like it would never leave. Eight years later, and I'm now four years out from having said goodbye to that beautiful soul I called a brother in every way and it's reality that he beat me to the top once again, and I'm slowly making my way up this climb called life with him still waiting at the top for me to arrive. Yet, somehow, I believe him that the view is worth it. 

The fact that one has loved at all means that one will lose and feel deeply. Grief is its own mountain and all our pains are peaks in their own right and it's in the ascending and descending of them that we find the healing we seek. There is no perspective - no view  - unless we keep moving. Keep climbing.

Time after time, I've had to tell myself this simple thought - drive it deep into the recesses of my soul that I remember: just. keep. climbing. Keep moving. Even when you're footsore from having climbed un-endingly. Even when you don't see a summit. Even when the heartache closes in. Even when the pain presses you deeply and you feel like you're going to crack in two. Yes... even in all that and more, find a way to keep putting one foot in front of the other. You will see what it all was for... one day. 

On the way back down, I recall reaching this one tricky spot where Alex reached for my hand and gave me a strong grip to hold onto as I navigated the drop. Always leading, he stood below me and helped me down. Helped me descend. And oddly enough, even as I've mourned his absence, he's still shown me the way even in my grief. His example has helped me see how to accept loss and turn my face into the pain. How to welcome grief as my teacher and my necessary, although unwanted, friend. And through it all, the strong grip of God has never let go. Just as Alex never let go of me. 

And even the invitation, once we'd gotten back to the car, to go stop in at a music festival and have some happy is reflective of the reality that a celebration, a reunion, awaits. Because of Jesus, pain is never final and death has been defeated forever. This is only a matter of waiting and doing it well. Of trusting that the joy is coming in the morning, even as darkness hangs heavy overnight. 

That day, I recall taking a photo of a bridge I saw. I don't know what made me snap it, but I now see that this is exactly where I've been: somewhere in the middle. Suspended between two realities. I'm not to the future yet, neither am I back with how things were then. Alex is gone, and I am left to grieve. So too with all others I've said goodbye to along the way. They have trekked on ahead, and I am still following behind. 

I will get there. Faith will become sight. But until then, I choose to still say that it is well. And I also choose to keep climbing. Because what I'll see when I reach the top will be worth it. It always is.