Ancient Ruins

A number of years ago, my husband and I journeyed through red rock country around Sedona, eager to explore ancient ruins. Under canopy of azure blue sky, warm air draping our bodies, we hiked up rock cliff, red dust caking bottom of shoes, we strove toward the site, upward to Native American cliff dwelling. Pausing occasionally to catch breath and to pray for deliverance from panicky fear of heights, I pinned gaze toward goal, a castle of sorts nestled in small hollow in the side of a thin ridge. A deep desire to witness first hand the housing for those who lived so long ago, in such a primitive way, propelled me forward, fear grounded below. I wondered at the pictographs, drawings etched with primitive hands, fingers never to tap a computer keyboard or turn a key in the ignition. Did they fall on slippery rocks dampened with rain? Were they frightened when fevers struck and Tylenol had no name? Today I marveled at the sun singing high above, wide open arms welcoming turn of season, and how a baby cries same as yesterday and we might not be any different than those cliff dwellers. Edwin Hubbel Chapin wrote: "Not in the achievement, but in the endurance of the human soul does it show its divine grandeur and its alliance with the infinite God." The calling upward, past failures and mistakes ground to fine dust, regrets burned to smoldering ashes, fixing eye on the goal, taking next step, prayers for grace and strength to keep the moving on. I had sat on edge of flat rock, gaze sweeping verdant greenery and red rock vista, crystal blue horizon causing breath to catch in way that says I-made-it-here-for-just-a-time-as-this. A pictograph, an ancient text message amid the ruins, pinging out words in drawings, yes-I-was-here-too.

 

 I have asked one thousand ways for God to take my pain away, and I am not Paul and have to keep re-learning that ancient secret of contentment. With each brave step into unknown territory, trusting Him to shelter me, I catch firefly glimpses of that cache. It's there beneath old cobwebs of fear and He is drawing it out, painting a picture so divine I wonder if that is a place I can finally call home. Where the past is left amidst the ancient ruins, and all that remains is the divine grandeur of the beautiful.