When my daughter, Ashley, was thirteen years old, we lugged climbing gear up the trail on our second attempt at Cathedral Peak in Yosemite park. We made a snug camp at the base and started on the spire before daylight the next morning. As we roped up and donned our rock shoes, the granite tower leaned over us.
“So you’re back. I thought the prior defeat ended this madness. Okay little people, bring it on.” The spire taunted us.
We climbed through the raw sun and howling wind. Fear, tears, and elation each took us in turns. We pulled ourselves atop the pinnacle as the sun hung over the horizon by butterscotch fingers.
Walking down the backside in the dark, we lost our way and bruised our feet. Champion that she was, Ashley endured the consequences of an overly ambitious father.
Of my climbing adventures, Cathedral Peak represents my meanest tragedy and my greatest victory.
Now God puts another monolith in my path—Jesus. The crucifixion of the King of the universe proclaims love until it’s an immovable stone in my path. There are only two choices for how I encounter this rock. I can lie down and embrace it, or I can try to run through it and be shattered. Every time I attempt to skirt around, some weird trick of editing makes the film loop, and I’m in front of the rock again. I’m forced to choose, embrace or shatter.
How could transparent me ever hope to break through solid Jesus? It’s a ridiculous proposal. So I stretch out on the rock, and feel its joy penetrate my being. Here is comfort. Here is foundation. Here is immovable promise.
Here also is my stone altar, and I’m the sacrifice. The rock died for me, so now it’s my turn to die for him.
This rock is truly my meanest tragedy and my greatest victory.
Prayer: Rock solid Jesus, I choose to die, and live with you.