I have always struggled with understanding how God speaks to me.
In my personal experience, it has never been a loud thundering voice.

It has been gentle whispers.

That often bring me to my knees and cause tears to pour out as I am reminded of just how gracious and gentle and kind he is.

He often encounters me in moments spent in His creation, softly speaking to my heart. Maybe because He patiently waits for stillness. Quietness. My hushed mind attentive to every noise happening around me. My soul quiets and for once, my mind isn’t forced to keep up with the hustle and bustle of everyday life.

A couple of weeks ago, me and G decided to take a couple days in the White Mountains of New Hampshire upon returning home in Maine. After spending a good, but hectic whirlwind of a summer in upstate New York both working demanding leadership positions at a Christian camp for the summer, we were a little spent. A little depleted. But we knew we had to gear up and prepare to return right to a different kind of crazy. He, returning to the same camp for a full-time job and I, preparing to leave for Guatemala for language school. We needed a pause. Some time to process- to debrief- before parting ways and navigating staying connected long distance.

And so, we hiked the Franconia Ridge Trail.

If you’ve ever hiked it, you know what hard work the 8-mile loop ridge trail is. It covers 3 peaks- Mount Lafayette, Mount Lincoln and Little Haystack Mountain.

A very popular hike in the Whites with incredible views… if you hit it on the right day.

We happened to start out on a rather foggy, misty morning that we hoped was going to clear.

The hike started off fairly chill, we crossed streams and hiked our way up stunning waterfalls. We chattered our way up until the work became too steep and grueling for me to walk and talk. G continued to spring from rock to rock like he always does, hardly out of breath while I gasp for dear life and pause every 5-10 minutes to catch my breath before marching on. As we neared the top of the first peak, I was fighting pain in my right knee that seemed to pop up out of nowhere. Each step seemed to really aggravate whatever tendon or ligament suddenly became inflamed and hugely aggravated. We stopped to look at the maps and I expressed the sudden pain I was in. We discussed our options.

1. Call it quits and turn back

2. Keep pushing through and complete the loop trail

Since we calculated that we were already about halfway through the loop trail (and my desire for accomplishment would never have let me consider retreat), we carefully decided the best option would be to just push through and finish the loop.

About a mile later we realized that the maps we were following completely underestimated the mileage and the 8-mile round trip was somehow looking more like 10. We made it to Lafayette and the weather was determined to withhold the ridges beauty. The wild wind kept threatening to blow me over and G had to keep his hand clenched on the back of my rain jacket as I walked in front of him, bracing against the wind. It took every ounce of my energy to stay upright and moving forward in some of the heavy gusts. The wind forcing tears down my face. Due to the noise, we were unable to audibly communicate much and just relied on each other’s facial expressions and nods of affirmation.

We were walking a thin, narrow trail with rocks lining the path. With the fog and clouds so thick, we couldn’t see but 10 feet in front of us and I knew on either side of us, the fog disguised the fact that there were massive drop offs, and one wrong step could lead to our demise. (Don’t you read stories like this somewhere…?) The fact that I couldn’t see either side of me was eerie and unsettling. It was also discouraging to not see far in front of me because I couldn’t visualize our destination. I could have no goal other than to just keep marching forward.

If I dared to lift my arms on my oversized rain jacket, I risked turning into a human kite and being blown off the face of the mountain. Laughs were had at my inability to stand upright in some areas. It surprised me to realize how much energy and strength it took to be walking in opposition against the wind.

During this intense portion of the trail as we kept on the exposed ridge for about a mile to reach the next peak, G kept asking if I was ok. I kept nodding and pushing forward. It became a goal of mine to just get off the ridge, to reach the next peak so that I could finally rest and for the wind to not take my breath away. I was marveling the whole time at how intense this weather was. And laughing at how we thought this was going to be a pleasurable, beautiful late-summer hike.

How boring this life would be if everything went completely according to plan…

We survived this portion of the trail, ascended the next two peaks, had our moment of celebratory victory (me a little dazed-I’m calling it altitude sickness- and G completely unphased) and began the now 5-mile descent down the trail.

On the descent, my knee that had threatened to turn us around on the way up reallly began to become angry. While I’m normally skipping my way down mountains, this injury forced me to think about every step, being careful not to put too much weight on it. (I think tearing my MCL a couple years ago back has caused some mental trauma, and I was not about to revisit that experience…)

At this point, G had taken my pack to alleviate some weight being placed on the injury. I was still slow and discouraged at how far we had to go before reaching flat ground and before reaching relief.

As we continued to descend, the clouds lifted and the wind blew away the fog momentarily, allowing us to briefly see the view that had been covered the entire time. It was worth it all. Why did I doubt?

I was wrestling with this internal dialogue as I slowly made my way down the trail when I think God used this very moment of weakness to parallel this experience to the season of life I was currently living in and wrestling through.

A season of grief and loss, of lost opportunities and choosing the hard over the easy. One of walking in blindness, knowing that He is faithful but often losing sight of where that narrow path leads. Fog and clouds threaten to consume and overwhelm me, keeping my eyes off of the end goal… the glorious Kingdom.

Unable to see more than 5 feet in front of me, stumbling over the unknowns and the unfamiliar territory. Grasping for clarity and a clear vision. Stepping into the fog, following out of sheer raw obedience. Unable to carry the weight myself and learning how to allow others to help carry it for me (bless G and his steadfastness). Old heart “injuries” creep up (insecurities; heart wounds of old) and threaten to prevent me from moving forward. Forcing myself to push through and find new and healthy ways to cope, deal and heal. The trek becoming much longer and harder than originally anticipated. The wind often threatening to just blow me over and admittedly, often I desire to just give up and surrender to it if it weren’t for the Anchor holding me down and keeping me on the straight and narrow road.

The narrow road. I’ve read and thought a lot about it but never have I quite understood and lived it until now.

Enter by the narrow gate. For the gate is wide and the way is easy that leads to destruction, and those who enter by it are many. For the gate is narrow and the way is HARD that leads to LIFE, and those who find it are few. (Matthew 7:13-14)

I surely feel how narrow and how hard that narrow gate is.

But the promise is life. And life abundant. (John 10:10)

And I desire abundancy.