Against the Cabin Wall
September 3, 2012 § 34 Comments
I am not sure what it means to believe in God. I cannot offer any clear definition of spirituality. But this I can say.
Thunder Lake sits in a bowl high in the Rockies. It is a natural amphitheater, ringed by peaks. Breathtaking grandeur.
That day a storm had blown in. Deep snow. Nearly whiteout conditions. Howling winds across the lake.
The small wooden patrol cabin locked. No shelter inside. I huddled against the cabin wall on the side away from the wind. As I pressed my body against the wood, I felt fear. Alone. Isolated.
I looked across the lake, through the swirling snow, and saw the mountains, rising up into the gray sky. In the next moment, the wind died, its howl drifting down into the valley. The quiet came. A dim, filtered sunlight pushed its way into the bowl.
Fear left my body like a sweat. Washed away, gone. In its place came a sense of well-being, a preternatural calm- the sense of safety and security that I can only imagine last belonged to me as a small child in my mother’s arms.
I felt no anxiety. I wanted for nothing. I was right where I was supposed to be- still huddled against that cabin wall, still hours from the trailhead, still deep snow ahead. Still alone. But not alone.
These words are as good as I can do to describe that moment. But they’re not good enough. That feeling that day was more. Beyond words. Not to be pinned down with language or explained by reason. Just to be felt- and to be lived.