Picture yourself on a rugged, windswept mountain path. The boughs of the fir trees sag under the weight of fallen snow. This is no beginner’s trail. It’s steep and rocky and there are treacherous crevasses and gullies. It’s snowing so hard that you can’t see very far ahead. When the snow lets up momentarily, the sky is gray and bleak. Your path isn’t marked and you’re not traveling with a guide, so you have to go by sight and intuition.
You trudge onward, knowing that the hardest is yet to come. There will be even steeper grades and less visibility. You’ll come to places where you must use your climbing equipment just to be able to hold on to the mountain. Even now it takes every ounce of your strength to press onward. Your muscles ache and your face stings from the cold. The wind causes tears to form, then blows them from the corners of your eyes and they turn to beads of ice on your cheeks. Your hands are numb. But you have great courage and tenacity, and you are spurred on by a tremendous compulsion to reach the peak. These obstacles can’t stop you. You forge onward.
Still, your strength is waning. You’re being stretched to the limit in body and spirit, and deep down inside you wonder if you can make it.
Just then, through the trees, you see a glimmer of light. As you move on, the forest parts and there’s a mountain lodge, a sort of way station for travelers. It’s built of logs, with a steep pitched roof and wide overhang. It looks so warm, so inviting.
There are probably hot drinks inside—perhaps coffee or tea or hot chocolate, perhaps even brandy, you think.
Smoke from the chimney tells you that a fire is burning in the fireplace. As you get closer, the fire flickers and gleams through a break in the curtains at the window. You hear people laughing inside as they eat and drink, and you catch glimpses of them. It’s so warm inside that they don’t even have their jackets on. The lodge is like an island of warmth, cheer, and encouragement in the middle of the snowstorm.
You pause for a moment to observe the travelers inside, who are getting warmed, refreshed, strengthened, and rested for the rest of the journey. Maybe they’re exchanging information about what lies ahead or tips on how to make it the rest of the way, you think. Or maybe this is their first time too, but there are guides inside who know the way, the pitfalls, and dangers, who are advising them of the safest and quickest route.
And there’s food inside—good, hearty, nourishing food. You’ve been hungry for so long that you can hardly even remember what it’s like to enjoy a warm meal. You’ve just been eating trail snacks along the way because you didn’t want to stop long enough to fix anything more substantial.
There are probably guest rooms where you could nap or even spend the night. The place seems to have everything a weary traveler might need. You feel drawn by the happy voices inside. You could use some companionship and a chance to compare notes, draw encouragement, and learn from fellow travelers.
Yet, as you survey the lodge and consider the benefits it offers, you have second thoughts. You’ve got to keep up your momentum, you reason. Sure, your muscles ache, you’re half-starved, and your extremities are numb and stinging with cold. But stop? That’s for weaklings and quitters. You can make it. You’d rather find the way yourself. You’ll get a little more glory that way.
A little voice inside you says, “What if you don’t make it? What if you take a wrong turn? What if you have an accident because you didn’t know the danger points? What if you run out of strength?” But you ignore this voice that is telling you to stop and get rested and refreshed at that lodge.
Onward you press, into the dark forest and the blizzard, up the menacing mountain. It’s better to go it alone, you reason, relying on sheer determination to carry you through to the end.
And that’s the last you’re seen or heard from.
It’s hard to imagine anyone doing such a thing, but this is actually what many of us do in spirit when we’re faced with difficult challenges and when a rest in the warm and caring arms of Jesus could make all the difference. He has given us everything we need to make the rewarding yet sometimes difficult and perilous journey of life—His Word, prayer, communion with Him, and Christian fellowship and partnership—yet so many of us try to make the journey on our own. If we stopped for spiritual rest, we’d find food for our soul, fellowship with Jesus, and answers to our problems in His Word and through prayer. We’d find guidance from helpers who know the way.
Why then do we ignore this help and go it alone? Does pride get the better of us? Is it partly because we don’t want to admit that we’re not sufficient in ourselves—that we need Jesus, the guidance of His Word, and the help of fellow Christians?
And so we trudge on, and oh, the way is so difficult!
Jesus can’t take away the steepness of the climb or the difficulty of the path, but He can make your journey easier. These rest stops with Him along the way will make the journey a joy because you’ll have the strength to meet each challenge as it comes.
Listen to His call in your heart, “Stop at My lodge, won’t you? Have a cup of comfort with Me. Warm yourself by the fireplace of My Word. Learn from those who have gone before you. Rest in one of My big comfortable beds. Then you’ll be ready to start out again. And when you reach the mountaintop, you’ll rejoice at the breathtaking view and drink from crystal-clear mountain pools—and you’ll return to tell others how they can get there too.”
Originally published April 2001. Republished January 2012. TFI
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