A Weekend of Superlatives. Or, The King of the Mountain

Last weekend I was given the opportunity to climb Mt Kenya, which happens to be the second-highest peak in Africa, topping out at around 17,058. Since I grew up in the San Diego area around sea level, this was, needless to say, the highest I had ever been outside of a motorized flying transport.

Our group climbed to the second peak, which was around 16,355 feet. Still high. Base camp 2 was at 13,800 feet and base camp 1 was somewhere around 11,000 feet. All of this, higher than I have ever travelled in my life.

This weekend was the
hardest
highest
longest
coldest
bitterest
most painful
most beautiful
most awe-inspiring
most enlightening
most challenging
most tear-evoking
thing I have EVER done.

That mountain defeated me. After two days of heavy hiking (on the first, and 17.5 on the second), we rose at two in the morning to begin the three-hour hike up the remaining 2000 feet. I made it half way. It was dark. It was cold. Asthma prevented my lungs from filling in the frigid air. I couldn't see the step in front of me, not because of the darkness, but because my vision was failing me. Black enveloped my eyes and I stumbled. I knew that I wouldn't make it.

Of the nine that started on our mission (quest... thing), only six rose that morning to attempt the peak. Five made it. I turned back down the mountain. I begged those with me not to think less of me for failing, but the voice tugging at the back of my head told me they would. I had the willpower to do it, but my body would not allow it. Crying on the way down, I asked God why He would do this to me- why He brought me all this way just to fail at the last moment.

The day before I had injured my knee on a jump and hadn't really noticed much until now. Going down that slope was the second-hardest thing I've ever done. The first was turning back. Pain graced every step down the scree and shale back to my camp and the semi-warm tent. Tears froze to my face as I prayed and pled with God to show me why I'd failed.

Amid the intense spiritual warfare (ask me about this if you want to know), I remembered the Scripture I had read the night before: "I lift my eyes up to the mountains. Where does my help come from?" Psalm 121:1

I realized that I had been trying to climb the peak for my own reasons. I wanted God to help me do something that would glorify me, but that's impossible. I would have arrived at the top thinking of how great I had done, the wonderful accomplishments I've had, and how cool I am. I would have bathed in the praise of the people around me. And though it would have been in God's power that I had made it, He would have been left entirely out of the victory.

I also found that I had been trying to impress people. I am a bit (okay, a big bit) of an elitist, which translates to Pride. It's probably my biggest weakness. God had to remind me that I've forfeited my will to Him and that my accomplishments don't matter on Earth- they only count in an eternal perspective. What would climbing a mountain have accomplished for the Kingdom? Nada.

I had looked to the mountain for my help, my self-respect, my identity. But my help doesn't come from the mountain. It comes from the Creator of the heavens and Earth. It comes from the King of the Mountain.

And, as I learned this weekend, the King of the Mountain is the Prince of My Heart.

My knee ached me all the way down to the point where I had to stop several times and weep, unable to restrain the tears that pain brought. I was reminded of Jacob- he wrestled with God and was given a new identity, a new blessing.

I wrestled with God. He touched my leg and made me walk with a limp. And He blessed me.