Vitamin Valley

"It's damp down here," I remark for the third time. 

A few family members grunt in assent, then return to their various duties as we settle in to our new campsite. One of the few unclaimed locations, it sits at the bottom of a tree-studded ravine. And while I feel grateful for the blessing of any campsite at all on a summer night in the Redwoods, I can't help feeling a little underwhelmed, too.

I survey our temporary home. Multiple varieties of moss meet my gaze, covering nearly every surface in sight. I can almost feel them grow, inching toward us whenever we look away. Shadows from the trees and the encroaching valley walls create an early, unnerving dusk, and I set out to forage for another warm sweater. 

As I don my next layer, I sigh. This sense of unease felt familiar. Each time I linger too long in a valley, the presence of so much immovable earth makes me squirm. 

Oh, I enjoy mountains as much as the next girl. I just start feeling edgy - and unnecessarily cold - when they shoulder right up to my tent. The shadows offend me. The incline makes me itch. Do I climb it? Ignore it? Why does it blot out the sun? 

Yes, low-lying locales upset me. They steal my sense of place, self, and security, creating a quiet desperation that only lifts when I'm safe, far away. 

But what if I just can't escape?

This question assailed me today. I've been meditating on 1 Corinthians 12:7-10 lately, especially the part that says, "I will boast about my weaknesses." The apostle Paul describes the glory Christ receives when His strength complements human frailty. It's a familiar concept, one my mind comprehends without question, but lately, God's been pressing it much deeper into my heart. 

You see, my own weaknesses have been leaning in extra hard these past weeks, crowding me like socially-awkward dinner guests. But I can't find the strength to escape! Closer and closer they press, looming higher than the encroaching terrain I so dread. And they're not surmountable weaknesses, either. They're the kind I fear I'll live with forever. They cast their long shadows, stealing my sense of place, self, and security day by day. 

I glance around, feeling small. The landscape closes in. I'm uneasy and cold, and I ache to run away. But since these mountains arise from my own soul, there's simply nowhere to go. I long, like Paul, to find the strength to accept these weaknesses as gateways to God's boundless grace. But will that mean a permanent stay in this place?

I picture myself now, surrounded by these towering peaks. Why would God allow these weaknesses to overwhelm me, anyway? Doesn't He want me to climb, to succeed, to scale new mountain heights?

Well, yes. And no. 

A closer reading of Paul's words in I Corinthians reveals that his weakness kept him humble. Resigning himself to looking up at those impossible heights prevented him from an inflated sense of pride. Paul's place and his security depended not on his own abilities but on Christ; a constant awareness of his weakness helped keep this truth fresh in mind. 

Suddenly, I really start to squirm. Why does my frailty bother me so much, anyway? Have I, like Paul, preferred to boast in my own strength, not in Christ? Do I resent a constant view of my weakness because it tarnishes this sinful pride?

Carefully, I revisit the spiritual landscape in my mind. The mountains still surround me - my struggle with depression, my physical limitations, the ugly attitude I just can't hide. Hesitantly, I ask for the strength to view them not as personal threats but as invitations to completeness in Christ. My sadness? It requires His joy. My frailty? His power. My sin? His forgiveness and grace. Without these mountains for perspective, how quickly I'd forget the One Whose strength makes me rise. 

"Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will mount up on wings as eagles. They will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not faint." (Isaiah 40)

Day by day, I'm learning to accept this reality as another of God's wise, sovereign ways. He allows these mountains to remain. He promises stay close through the valleys. (Psalm 23) And He tells me I need not be afraid (John 6:20). With my eyes fixed on Him, He invites me, with Paul, to proclaim, "When I am weak, then I am strong." This is real faith, unashamed. This is a valley worth celebrating. This is somewhere I can stay.