Ebenezer

Last week, I traveled ten hours away with my wife and daughter to Big Bend National Park. It was our first family vacation. We literally spent days gathering the materials we needed for this trip. From tents to wool hiking socks, we searched aimlessly to find the best prices and the best quality items we could find. The closer the time came to leave, the more excited we became about our first vacation together.

What we didn't expect were the obstacles that would arise as soon as we stepped foot in the park.

On day one, no campsites were available. So, we spent the whole day searching for a place to stay until eventually we decided to camp illegally (I didn't know this was a thing until the feds told me). Evidently, the campsite we chose was already reserved and someone wasn't very happy when they pulled up.

On day two, I got detained by federal officers after our generator was impounded. Evidently, the policies called for no generators anywhere in the back country. And, both of the tents were blown down by forty-mile-an-hour wind gusts. Have you ever tried to get an eleven month old to sleep with you in a minivan? It's impossible. 

On day three, temperatures got down into the thirties. That night, they got down into the twenties.

On day four, my wife Shelby twisted her ankle on a trail.

On day five, as soon as we put the baby down to sleep in her tent, another cold front came through and nearly blew the tent down while she was in it. She didn't like that very much. 

On day six, we were eight miles in on a twelve mile hike, and Shelby developed an excruciatingly painful urinary tract infection. So, we nearly ran down the mountain, jumped in our car, and drove 100 miles to the nearest hospital to get her the care she needed. On the way, we were detained by the border patrol because the drug dog sniffed some prescriptions.

Even after the trip, on the way home, the obstacles didn't stop coming. We hit a deer and were forced to extend our trip one more day. 

Throughout the trip, I had this eerie feeling of, This can't get any harder! And then it would get harder. It seemed like every turn we took had a detour or a game changer. 

When things seemed like they couldn't get any harder, they did. 

There were times when I wondered if we should go back home. There were times when our frustrations got so bad that we took it out on each other. Once, while we were standing on top of the beautiful South Rim, overlooking the Chihuahuan Desert, we were so pissed that Shelby threw an Oreo at my head and I retaliated by throwing rocks at her. There were times when in the back of my mind, I could see the lips of our parents mouthing, I told you so.

But somehow, some way, we hung on. We kept going. We held out for things to get better. 

And I'm so glad we did. 

One of the things I thought about during the trip was photographs. If you were to scan through all the pictures we took, you wouldn't get the full story. You'd see beautiful landscapes, a smiling baby, and scenes of us all snuggling together for selfies. You'll see happiness, laughter, and the finest sites you can see in Texas. What you won't see are the moments of tears, frustration, the times we wanted to give up, or the times we were going insane from listening to the baby scream at 3:00 in the morning. You won't see how everything was frozen when we woke up one morning, or the tents that were obliterated by the wind gusts. 

I wonder about how if we didn't take the pictures, would we even remember what we saw? Would we even remember the places we went? Would we remember the Devil's Den, or the Chimneys, or the Window?

At one point, as we were hiking down the South Rim, there was a pile of marijuana, with a pipe, just sitting on a rock in the middle of the trail. No one was around. It was just sitting there, inviting us to escape our current misery. Shelby was in intense pain, and I was insane. The thought crossed my mind, No one will ever know. After entertaining the thought a little, we moved on. Little did we know that we'd be getting searched in a few hours by a drug sniffing dog at the border patrol station. 

Looking back now, that pile of pot sitting in the middle of the trail pretty much summed up our trip. There were always easy-ways-out. There was always the option of going back home. There was always the option of opting out for an easier, softer way. But, for some reason, deep in our bones, we sensed there was something more. There was this still, small, voice that whispered, Keep going. You won't be dissatisfied. 

And we kept going. And we weren't in the least dissatisfied. 

There's something about struggle that connects us with something bigger than ourselves. Whether we're going about it alone, or going about it with a significant other, our minds are etched with moments in our histories in which it seemed the bar just couldn't get raised any more than it already was. And then it got raised. 

And the photographs will eventually disappear. They'll get deleted, or faded, or lost. But we'll never forget the struggles we went through. As beautiful as the landscapes were, as beautiful as the trails were, as beautiful as it was to hike forty miles with our baby in tow, the moments we'll never forget are the moments that we struggled the most. 

Along the trails are piles of rocks that people have made to point out where the path is headed. They're there to guide, to tell you where to turn, or to tell you to keep going the same direction. The Hebrew word for this pile of rocks is ebenezer - stone of help.


And our stories of struggle are the ones that withstand time. They're our ebenezers of history. They're  our mental altars that will always remind us, That's when God helped us. That's when God comforted us. That's when God protected us and provided for us. 

As painful, as traumatic, and as frustrating as it may seem, the struggles I face are temporary liabilities. Eventually, they'll turn to assets. It'll seem impossible that anything good can come from them. It'll seem really inviting to try to change the way I feel about them. It'll be really tempting to find an easier, softer way. But, the struggles will turn into victories. 

And each struggle is one stone, among many, forming an altar of remembrance - a mental landmark - both pointing me back to see how God did for me what I couldn't do for myself and pointing me forward in the hope that God will come through again.