Think Faith

This morning on the way to work I almost got squashed by an overturning tractor trailer carrying a roll of steel. I was in the middle lane on I40 (westbound) when the rig was getting on the highway at Rt. 64, which boasts a very tight curve. The trucker must have taken the turn too fast. Praise God I was still about 10 car lengths behind where it was merging. It was like watching a movie in slow motion. Fortunately, only the driver was injured, and only his truck was damaged, and the roll of steel landed on its side. The cab of the truck was on its side and the driver climbed out pretty shaken, blood dripping from his arm. A college kid made phone calls for him, and I had the opportunity to pray with him.

It was so sad to see how scared I was to simply pray with what could have been a dying man. There was a spiritual battle inside of me. I felt the Holy Spirit prodding me to pray with him, but over the years, somehow, I have turned into a coward when it comes to proactively expressing my faith in public. In a church environment I feel safe, but in public I am insecure. In the end, I have been a hypocrite in matters of evangelism. I talk about it, but I don’t really do it. I have told myself that I care for the lost, but I haven’t cared enough to tell them how to find peace with God through Jesus Christ. But this time the Holy Spirit prodded me further with thoughts like this: John, you asked me for courage. Right now I’m just asking you to pray with him. If you can’t do what I ask you to do here and now, when will you do it? Nobody else is going to do it. You have the only thing that will give him peace. Here’s your opportunity.”

And so after much wrestling, I finally asked Bobby, the truck driver who was visibly shaken and afraid of losing his job, to let me pray for him. He didn’t resist. I laid my hand on his shoulder (the one not bleeding) and prayed for him. I prayed for his physical and emotional healing. I prayed that he wouldn’t lose his job. I prayed for peace in the situation, the kind of peace that only God can give. I asked those things in the name of Jesus. And my work was done. I did what the Holy Spirit prompted me to do. I said the words He prompted me to say. I was His messenger to Bobby this morning, hopefully not the last.

I looked around and each emergency worker was fulfilling his role. One checking for gas leaks, one directing traffic, two putting Bobby on a stretcher, one taking down eyewitness accounts, and now one interceding for Bobby before the Father in the name of Jesus Christ. It is a sobering, humbling and powerful commission to be called into the service of our Lord. Each day He calls us to “take up your cross and follow Me.” This morning Bobby needed a Savior. I needed a Lord.

I pray that God would finish the work He started in Bobby’s life. I ask you to do the same.

It seems a strange thing to me that when our bodies are weakest, our emotions are strongest. The thoughts and feelings we never knew were in us unexpectedly rise to the surface. And so it was on the fourth day between Nevada Falls and Vernal Falls:

Nevada and Vernal Falls

I try to escape the intense pain in my legs and my lungs, each step a decision to continue until my body finally slips into auto-pilot. I’m getting used to the thirty-plus pounds on my back. It seems as if my mind is floating above my body. I wish I had the energy to enjoy the beautiful trees, the path and the two waterfalls. I stop every few hundred feet to catch my breath. I lean heavily on my big walking stick.

Earlier in the day I told my good friend, Son, that God had been awfully quiet on the trip so far. I wanted to learn something, to take something away from this experience. I’ve known God long enough to know that He’s never absent. Sometimes He hides His presence from us, though. That’s where faith comes in. God reveals Himself to those who believe. “Draw near to God and He will draw near to you.” (James 4:8)I needed to be alone. I told the guys to go ahead so that I could go at my own pace. I prayed, “God, show me something.”

Now, hours later, between the two falls, I find myself alone. My body feels broken and my emotions start to rise. My thoughts go back to my grandfather, John, for whom I am named. I never knew him. He died when I was a baby. My mom has a picture of him holding me. Why do I miss him so much? My eyes start to water.

I hear God answer my morning prayer, “You never grieved for him.”

I begin to cry right there on the path while my body continues to move. My sunglasses shield the tears while my lips tremble. “God, why did you take him away from me? I never got to know him! What was he like? Help me to know him.” I wrestle with God, allowing myself to just feel whatever comes up. I tell Him how I feel. I am a boy sobbing in his Father’s arms.

I come around the bend. Oh, great! There’s a fork in the road. Where are the other guys? Which way do I go? One sign says “Yosemite Valley 2.5 miles” and it goes uphill. The other path says “Vernal Falls” and it goes downhill. I thought we only had a mile to go and it was downhill! UGGH!

I follow the sign. I start heading uphill. The switchbacks are relentless and steep. I have to stop now every 50 feet to catch my breath and cool my body down. I only have a couple drops of water left. GOD, this is crazy! I’m lost, I’m alone, I’m out of water, I’m dehydrated. I CAN’T GO ANY FURTHER! I’M GOING TO DIE HERE!

I hear God answer my second prayer, “Enter his suffering.”

He brings to mind the time when Grandpa was fighting the Germans in WWII. He got separated from his company in the mountains and was captured. He must have felt this way, only worse! All at once I feel like I know my Grandpa in a way that I cannot describe with words. My heart is permeated with empathy for him. Somehow I enter into his suffering with my own. I praise God. My misery turns to joy!

The Holy Spirit brings to mind Christ’s suffering. I try to enter into His suffering, too, to identify with Him, but mine doesn’t compare. What pain He must have endured! He did it for me! I begin to see the joy in suffering for another. I begin to understand Hebrews 12:2, “Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinful men, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.” I bask in his comfort and peace.

I have nothing left in my body to give. I just sit under a tree. I pray for God to send an angel. I’m dehydrated and starting to feel it. A woman comes down the path towards me. I ask for water, but she has none to give. She asks where I am going. “Yosemite valley,” I reply.

God answers my third prayer through this woman. “You’re going the wrong way,” she said, “It’s down past Vernal Falls.”

I thank her and we speedily make our way down the mountainside till we get to Vernal Falls. I stoop to fill my bottle with water that flowing swiftly between the falls. She goes on ahead. I rest and absorb the crystal clear fluids as they go down my parched throat. I regain a little energy, but not much. I head down the steep trail, step after step, enjoying the mist off the falls as I descend.

As I near the bottom I see my friend, Chad (Navigator), coming up the path toward me. We talk briefly and He takes my backpack. I stumble along till we reach the spot where my guys are waiting patiently for me. They give me a place to lie down and fill my bottle with a sports drink. A few minutes later we head to the Valley Floor. My pack feels lighter. Someone took out the heavy stuff! And thus my comrades exemplify the great exhortation, “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ. ” (Galatians 6:2)

In my last post I stated that I would write next about my encounter with God on the Yosemite trail. Before I do that I need to give you some important background information. Below is the account my grandfather, John Kellogg, wrote regarding the events leading up to his capture by the Germans in World War II. My aunt Karen sent this to me around Memorial Day this year after I expressed my regret that I never got to know my grandfather.

(unfinished – found papers in his desk)

The morning of Dec. 17th or 18th, memory fails me as to date, I found myself alone with three buddies on the east side of a swift moving stream in the Ardennes, near Clerveau. It had been an exceedingly tough night. The remnants of our battalion had fought all day in a small village east of Clervaux and we had finally been pushed out of the village into the meadow beyond where we dug in for what the morning might bring. The line such as it was had gone far beyond us and as far as we knew we were an isolated unit. We expected nothing but to fight until the end whatever that might be. The outlook was anything but heartening. The village we had just left was but a mass of flame. God knows whatever became of the villagers. The last I saw of them they were all huddled in the basement of the last house in the village. They weren’t a bad bunch. I only hope that when I can look into the face of utter ruin I can be as stoical as they.

To get back to my story : The terrain was fairly well-lighted from the flames of the village and it was possible to see our outfit digging in for quite some distance. We had dug our machine guns in on the perimeter and Johnny Zero, my buddy and I had dug a slit trench nearby and filled it with straw to lie on. We stood guard on the guns for quite some time. When we considered our duty was about up, I endeavored to find our relief. It was quite a job as the ground was covered with slit trenches and the platoons and companies pretty well intermingled. We finally found our relief and then retired to our own private slit trench. Johnny had left his coat with our jeep which was back in the burning village, as were our packs, so my overcoat had to cover the two of us. It had been two nights since I had had any sleep and now I can’t remember whether I dropped off or not, but I recall Lieutenant Mason, our platoon leader telling us to knock our gun down and load it on the jeep of H company and to round up the rest of our boys. As we were pulling out, finding the boys was a difficult job but I know all of our squad was there. The boys burrowed so in the hay in their holes that it was impossible to tell if there was anyone in the holes or not. I missed some of the boys in the other squads and it was difficult to say if some were left sleeping there or not. We finally found one of H Company’s jeeps and loaded the gun. I doubt very much if that jeep ever got back to our lines. Orders were given in a very low tone and passed from one to another. We filed away from the area, single file. Except for the burning village, it was extremely dark and very difficult to maintain contact. The hills in the Ardennes are reforested and covered with drainage ditches. We went down one single file. Our leader found that that way was blocked and we reversed the line of march and fled back to the top of the hill. Originally I had been near the head of the line, but when we reversed file, I was near the end. We slowly filed down another ditch and across a road. Our march was continuously halted as the way would be blocked and we would have to wait until whatever was holding us up moved on. When we finally crossed the road, the crossing was made available by men with bazookas who knocked out jerry patrol tanks which we found burning and exploding on the road. The march at this point was down at a position which might be called a half crouch. We filed down another ditch and eventually came to a railroad. We marched single file along a northerly direction. It was quite misty and here the line moved fast making it more difficult than ever to maintain contact with the man preceding me. Finally the line left the railroad , went over a fence and came to the edge of a swift moving stream. Here things were in what might be called something of a mess. Someone up the line had lost contact in crossing the stream and there were several hundred men milling up and down the stream not knowing what to do. We were in a valley which was paralleled by roads covered by Jerry patrols. These patrols were continually throwing up flares and covering the intermediate area with guns. I decided for myself that I would rather be on the other side of the stream. My sergeant and I picked out what looked like a likely spot to cross and I started out. I’d say at this spot the stream was about ten feet across. I had on my overcoat around which was my ammunition belt and in addition had my Carbine. I took one step which wasn’t too bad, but which informed me that I was up against a terrific current. I took another step and went in over my head and was swiftly swept downstream. As luck would have it my carbine was full and when I finally came to my wits I held that out and Ledycat Eaton, our instrument man, grabbed the butt and pulled me out. All went very fine, but I was still on the wrong side of that stream and time was marching on. Our Section sergeant, Hardy Balls, as we affectionately called him, lined us up and we started to march north along the stream. We marched fast, too fast for me with my soaked clothing and I had to drop out to take off my overcoat. I had a very good coat, by the way, it came nearly to my ankles and when soaked one can well imagine my handicap. By the time I had my ammo belt off, the coat off and the ammo belt back on, the line had disappeared, all except three fellow who stuck with me. These were Sergeant Eaton, our instrument man, Private McCarlay and one of our Ammo bearers, whose name I should well know but memory fails me. We tried to figure out where the boys went but soon found the terrain near the stream impassible and we did not care to march up the track.

The story remains unfinished. From what I recall, my grandfather later stayed behind to help a sickly soldier who was hiding in a barn when the Germans investigated and heard a cough. My grandfather was captured and spent far too long in a prison camp where he was starved to the point of eating his tooth fillings. Eventually he was freed and returned to the States with head full of gray hair. There’s so much more I could write about, but this is sufficient preparation for writing about my encounter with God on the Yosemite trail.