Climbing the Mountain

The five o’clock sun beats down on us as we ascend the steep path, illuminating beads of sweat on brows and mosquitos flickering about, looking for opportunity. Conversation is light as the focus of the group is placed on navigating their way to the top of the mountain.  

               The sound of tennis shoes slipping across dirt, followed by rocks sliding down in front of me interrupts my focus. “Ah!” yelps a voice from the front, “that one almost got me.”

               “Careful up there,” comes another voice from the back.

               As the ascent continues, I hear my heart beating wildly in my chest and the sound of air rushing to fill my lungs to supply precious oxygen to my strained muscles. My calves are burning and I begin to wonder just how long this hike will be and what could possibly be up here that was so important that our leader just had to show us.

               The group begins to stop ahead and the twelve other men gather on top of a rock. “There you can see the remains of the old amphitheater,” the leader says, “last time I was here they only had about half that much uncovered.”

               “They are still digging it up?” asks a younger man.

               “Oh yeah,” replies the leader. “When they get funding that is. Alright, we are about halfway now.”

               “Halfway?” a voice in my head complains. I look back at the ruins and then continue up the increasingly steep trail.

               Ten minutes later, the only thing working in my mind is trying to maintain the will to continue the climb. “Man, I’m out of shape,” I say between breaths to the tall man next to me.

               “Yeah,” he pants.

               “That’s it,” an excited voice announces from the front.

               I take the last few steps up the path and turn to see what has the man so excited.

               Erected at the top of the mountain is a white steel cross overlooking the majestic blue of the Aegean Sea in the distance.

               “Who put that there?” exclaims the tall man.

               “I don’t know,” replies the leader. “But it’s been here as long as I’ve been coming.”

               “Ain’t that something,” says a bearded man. “Greece is such a beautiful country. All we got is desert where I live.”

               “Alright, well have a look around,” says the leader. “We’ll rest in the shade a bit before we head back down.”

               The men split up into small groups and begin to chat. Instinctively, I wander about on my own, looking at the wildflowers and taking pictures of the scenery. I hear the men introducing themselves to one another and I realize that I have two options. I can continue to keep my distance, as I usually do, or I can take a chance and try to gain some insights into my fellow hikers.

               “Well, I didn’t come to Greece to look at the flowers,” I tell myself and walk over to two men sitting on a rock and chatting. One is a large man with red hair and a southern accent and the other is the bearded man I had seen before.

               “I was in China for 18 years before I came to the middle east,” says the redhaired man.

               “I just got to the middle east a few years ago,” replies the bearded man.

               “Any fruit yet?”

               The bearded man pauses before answering, “Yeah, I mean we went without having a community so its been a slow start but its starting to show. The problem is that if they convert, their family will just drag them back half the time, disown them the other half. The Lord is there though and the Gospel is spreading.”

               “I heard that,” responds the redhaired man. “We had the same problem in China for a while. Once you get a large enough community of believers, that starts to change though. They can depend on each other.”

               Seeing my opportunity to enter the conversation I ask, “Why did you leave China?”

               “It was time. They were ready to lead themselves.”

               “Wow, so you actually did it. You successfully planted a church and led it to the point of being self-sustaining. That must be fulfilling.” I exclaim.

               “Yeah…” the redhaired man looks off to the sea in the distance. “I miss my friends, though. They were all I knew for the better part of two decades.”

               “You ever hear from them?” asks the bearded man.

               “Nah, I can’t. The government can access any of the means I have to contact them. They just gotta do it on their own, now.”

               “You think they’re doing alright?” I ask.

               “Oh, I know they are. I wouldn’t have left if I wasn’t absolutely certain they were ready.” He puts his hands in his pockets and looks back at me with a serious expression, “they’re alright.”              

               “Maybe you’ll get that Titus moment,” I respond exercising a term I had heard used before by some of the other missionaries. It references when Paul had to go looking for Titus after a period of not hearing from him. Their reunion is often referenced by missionaries as something they look forward to experiencing with the disciples they leave behind after planting a church.

               “Well, that’s exactly what it’ll take,” shrugs the redhaired man, looking back out to the sea, “a miracle.”

               Suddenly, a feeling comes over me. I look around the top of the mountain at the other men surrounding me, having very similar conversations to the one I am having with the redhaired man. I search my heart to try and identify the feeling that has fallen upon me and I realize that it is that of a child in the presence of adults.

               These men are living a life of which I have no understanding. True, I consider myself a Christian who is doing God’s work, but I have never gone so far, nor sacrificed as much as they have to serve my Lord. In comparison to them, I am but a child, still learning and growing in my faith. But they are like adults in that they are truly acting upon their faith, and I realize in that moment that I admire them.

               My thoughts turn to what more I can be doing to serve my church when I come home when I am interrupted.

               “Let’s get a picture before we climb back down,” says the leader and we huddle together in front of the cross.

               “Boy, that cross sure is leaning,” says the man taking the picture. “I think its seen its better days.”

               “The work on the cross is finished,” I say.

               “Ours remains,” says the bearded man.

               A snap of the camera and we all start filing down the path, silently. I wonder if their minds are filled with the same thoughts as mine, the work I have to do when I get back down the mountain. I take one last glimpse at the white cross framed against the blue sea, and begin to quietly sing, “Oh the night has been won, and I shall overcome, Yet not I, but through Christ in me.”