Climbing the Rocks of Life
Several years ago, Pete, a graduate student in a class I taught, described his favorite activity: rock climbing. I shivered with nervousness as he went on with some details of the sport. As the climber, Pete moves upward by putting his foot on a tuft of grass grounded in a niche of the rock or on a small outgrowth of stone. “Focus! Be careful to focus! Concentration is essential.” He also reaches for similar aids to help him pull himself up, little by little.
Pete chooses his next step rather than obeying the promptings from friends and onlookers below. As the climber, Pete makes his own judgments. He assesses his risks and possibilities from his vantage point. I breathed a little lighter when Pete noted that his special shoes serve him well for climbing and security. They are made of a material similar to the rubber used in tires. They enable his feet to grip the rock. A jolt hit my solar plexus when Pete reported that before his shoe can grip securely, he has to step on the rock, putting his weight on his foot and rock. Gulp! Trust and skill certainly need to become partners!
Pete’s description has returned to me many times as I walk and climb through the rocks of my days. I maneuver on a “tuft of grass” when I step into the pain of another person. Will I know what to say? Do? Will her pain draw me into hers? My nerves calm when I begin teaching a class with the perspective that together we will create and explore. This view enables my “rubber shoes” to give me some stability rooted in the fact that not all depends on me. I dread meetings in which it becomes a challenge to engage in civil discourse. I find it discouraging as I try to find common ground to discuss and make decisions. How can my “rubber shoes” help me to be stable inside myself and to listen so I can find an entry into some talking points? Walking on an icy parking lot during a Minnesota winter can call for as much daring as rock climbing does—making my way step by step, facing danger of falling, focusing on any rough spot or clear inch to step on for safety, hoping that I’ll reach my destination.
The more I think of my days, my life, as moving with the dynamics of rock climbing, I wonder: In what ways might God be the rock I’m climbing? What might God be calling me to for my next step? What “tufts of grass” and “jutting edges” might God be giving me to step on for support and for my next steps? How might my trust in God, myself and others be growing stronger? I hear an answer: “Be alert and the answers will be shown you.”
Mary Reuter, OSB
Photo by Riccardo on Pexels.
