I stepped towards the edge. And then I inched towards it a little more.
I looked.
My heart gasped.
The earth didn’t fall away from me —it was the sky that swept beyond me and cracked through the rock, piercing its way into a depth I could feel from thousands of feet above.
I was not expecting the majesty of this place.
I think I had expected some black rock. And a canyon.
This was…otherworldly. It filled me with a haunting stillness—with an awe that I have only ever felt once before on the side of a mountain. I would have called it holiness then.
Often, I will step into forests, place my hand upon a boulder, or walk along a mountain path…and I feel the presence of the place invite me in. I know that may sound strange, but I am deeply at home in mountain spaces. It is a sense of belonging, of the earthen world knowing I’m there and simply saying, “Hello, wanderer. We were wondering when you’d be home.”
This place…It did not belong to me. I was welcome to behold, but I had not been invited. This place did not need the presence of man or woman. It was its own…and content to be so.
The humming roar from below commanded me to be still.
Very still.
It told me to listen. To tread softly and speak rarely.
To know that my God keeps some pieces of earth to Himself and His winged creatures.
To know that there are some places man is only welcome to behold…not to touch.
There are some brave, chosen few who are surely God-inspired and invited to place foot and hand upon those black-striped walls—to press their bodies to its cold surface as they climb upon its contours.
I am not one of them.
I sat down in the early morning only a foot away from the edge of Painted Rock Point. I felt the sun crawl along the smooth surface and softly kiss the painting across from me. The sunlight hovered above the canyon, very rarely diving into the depths to brush the river roaring its poetry. The roar was constant—a deep hum that sang ancient thoughts.
I lifted my cup to my lips and filled my body with the warmth of black coffee. Perhaps my pen and fingers could comprehend the aura of this chasm. But they didn’t. The canyon was wise. It did not need my words, nor did it give them to me to write. The ancient veins that etched across the rock were free of man’s biases and only carried the freest of blood through their granite casings. This canyon was fulfilled by the One who made it.
I put down my pen. I tucked my journal back into my inner pocket. I stood up. The sun beamed in rays about my feet. I had been given the gift of feeling—and knowing—how small I truly am.
It is comforting to know that our Creator made us finite. To be without the wisdom to fully understand what we see or experience. He created my breath, my skin, my veins. He spoke into being the blood that runs through me. How dare I believe that I have the answers or the wisdom to understand the complexity of His design. He breathes into being; He calls us to a life of daring faith and compassionate love. But to comprehend and claim the entirety of His creation? No…
There are spaces that give our souls a glimpse of what earth was…and what it will be. Spaces untrammeled by man. Spaces kept for the holiness of our inheritance.
This whole entry gave me goosebumps. As finite beings, we don't have the capability to grasp His infinity and I believe those places that we "are welcome to behold...not to touch" are examples of the pieces of His creation that He's kept for Himself. On a lighter note, why people want to climb Mt. Everest is beyond me. I'd rather just behold that one through my God-given peepers because that's enough. I'll let the angels soar over that one :-)