A Life Worth Living

From Gabe

The sign said it was a mile and a half trail, down 600 feet, to the base of the canyon. The implication, of course, was that there was a not-quite-identical mile and a half hike back up 600 feet to the rim. I admit sometimes I forget to respect implications (the implications of that statement are not really important to me). What I knew is that I really wanted to go to the bottom, and see the White House Ruins.

Canyon De Chelly (pronounced d'Shay) is one of those God-made wonders that defies explanation. Its beauty rivals that of the Grand Canyon. In fact, if the Grand Canyon were not quite so grand, it probably would pale by comparison to the breath-taking Canyon De Chelly.

This place is more than just significant to the people of the Navajo Nation. It is the cornerstone. According to their tradition, the life of the Dine (it's what the Navajo call themselves, is pronounced d'nay, and means, simply, "people") originated here, at the site of one of these inconceivable rock formations called "Spider Rock." With the exception of 5 years that began in 1863 (a profoundly dark time in the legacy of the White Man), it is believed that dine (that is "people") have lived there for 5000 years. There are carvings, etchings and ruins of dwellings built into the shear mountain walls to bear witness to that history.

Canyon De Chelly is a National Park site that resides entirely within the Navajo reservation. The reservation, which is approximately the size of West Virginia, has been under the stewardship of the Navajo from "the beginning." They call it "Navajoland." Not because it belongs to them. It's much more like they belong to it. The Navajo are a proud, gentle and soft-spoken people. And they possess very little. How they survive is still a bit of a mystery to me, though I am sure it largely involves White Man's favorite version of repentance: Federal Aid.

Well, anyway, who wouldn't want to see these ruins, that speak of the ancestors of the Navajo? Well, for starters, people smart enough to realize that they need to be in fairly good shape to climb up a mile-and-a-half-long, 600-foot-tall trail. I am not such a person. In either respect.

After seeing the ruins and purchasing some beautiful hand-made jewelry, my group started our walk back to the trail. Along the way, I noticed a young man selling limestone carvings that were replicas of those on the actual limestone walls of Canyon De Chelly. He was a delightful young man, though his replicas were easily the least accurate of any I'd seen that day. Still, I allowed him to give me his sales pitch and history lesson, then I talked to him about how hard it must be to carve limestone with a nail (really), and generally made him feel as good as I could about what he'd done -- without actually purchasing his work. And I got one more opportunity to soak in the Navajo. Then I had to catch my friends.

The floor of Canyon De Chelly, at least where the White House Ruins are, is sandy, much like a beach. I briskly trotted off to my friends, thinking (perhaps for the first time with a clear head), "If I hit the base of this trail winded, I have no hope of reaching the top alive." Indeed, I hit the base winded. Obviously, since I'm writing this, my prediction was a tad melodramatic. But that doesn't mean I didn't believe my fate with each step and each breath I took.

But I learned a few somethings as I labored up that path, and I lived to tell about them. So now you get to hear it. (Are you wishing now that I have the gift of prophecy?)

As I stopped to catch my breath the first time, a little more than a third of the way up the canyon wall, I began to think that I couldn't possibly die this way. After all, I am not an athlete. It would be as ludicrous for me to die doing something athletic as it would for me to be trampled to death by a mob of angry hamsters. Maybe even more ludicrous. No, I would press on, perservere, achieve the goal set before me, no matter how painful, how daunting, how... unproven...

It was at this moment my friend Gary showed up. He and the rest of our party had actually gone on ahead, not realizing I had fallen behind. But, when he did notice my absence, he waved them on, and waited for me. And he stayed with me. Several more times I needed to stop. Somtimes I realized it, sometimes he did. He didn't need even one stop. But he stayed with me: to cheer me on, to encourage me, to keep me company, to "pace" me, to protect me.

As I considered what I had done, and what he had done, a few things occurred to me.

First, a life worth living is meant to be experienced -- to be completely consumed. In order to do that, we have to be willing to try things we've never tried before. Sometimes, we may not even plan them appropriately. But life is to be siezed and lived and not just witnessed.

Second, a life worth living is dangerous. And it can be painful. And daunting. And unproven.

Third, a life worth living is worth sharing. Sometimes, that sharing might even save your worth-living life. But every time, it makes the journey richer. After all, in God's economy, the only way to multiply your assets is to share them.

Fourth, God really, truly loves me. And He proves it repeatedly by blessing me with the people whom He draws to me. And he proves it by challenging me to embrace a life worth living.
I'm taking this lesson home with me (along with two, seriously stiff calves). I'm going to try to remember it as I contemplate and exercise my living in Philippi. But, as I wait on God, on theatres, on the blossoming of a church, I won't wait on life. I will live it.

Why was I even near Canyon De Chelly this week? I went to Gallup, NM to work a conference on Christian community development, hosted by the Navajo churches in that area. I was there as part of the worship team. Amazing things happened at that conference. And I promise you'll hear about them all, and I promise that many of you will be astounded.

In the end, do you know what we all learned there? We learned that a community has a life worth living. And that such a life is dangerous. And that the living of that life is worth sharing. And that God really loves the community that is Navajo Nation, just as much as He loves one called Philippi, West Virginia. And whatever yours is called as well.

After four days of witnessing that truth, I still needed an excruciating 45-minute uphill climb to make it real.