I am on my way home from four days skiing in Colorado.
It has been a beautiful experience, beautiful in snowy mountains and
friendship, carefree days and traveling mercies.
Though I have always loved snow and high places, I
somehow missed out on skiing most of my 62 years. It is a new interest
and a nascent skill. In fact, I can scarcely call the skiing I do a skill yet. Over
these days I did progress from green slopes to blue ones, and I found myself
gazing flirtatiously over the edges of a few blacks. I did not take the
plunge.
My skiing is slow, deliberate, mechanical. I talk to
myself as I work my way down the fall line, trying to establish a rhythm that
will keep me upright. Plant pole. Turn. Trust. Tall. Look. Plant pole. My
little poem and prayer.
There are as many types of skiers as there are types
of people. Some are so elegant as they glide above the snow. They appear to
exert no effort, no fear, no regret. I marvel at these lean, beautiful,
elfish creatures, forever young.
There are also those who approximate the elegance,
aspire to it, imitate it. They are well practiced, but not natural. They are
poised, but they will never be perfect.
Some attack the hill like they are beating back the
forces of nature. They slash, carve and jump. They race against unseen demons
in pursuit of some unknown prize.
There are skiers who have overcome great adversity--lost
legs, deformed arms, even blindness. Yet they adapt and persevere. What they
lack in elegance and speed they make up with courage. And they inspire.
On the slopes are characters and clowns. On this trip
I saw a fox and dog (with fur and tails), a slice of bacon and a Tootsie Roll. I
saw somersaults and back flips, green hair, wild hats, outrageous tattoos--a
smorgasbord of zaniness.
Most of the skiing masses are more like me. They are
not particularly elegant, practiced, courageous or crazy. They are on the wide
arc of average and along for the ride. Some are better than others. Some rarely
fall. Some fall all the time. Some never take a risk, while others habitually
bet more on their bodies than they can afford to lose.
The one thing all these many types of skiers have in
common is gravity. We are all headed to the bottom. How we get there might look
different, but the end for everyone is the same.
The great race down the mountain looks like The Great
Race, which is life. As different as we are, we are all moving toward a
terminal point. No matter our beauty, skill, determination or daring, we ride a
slope down to a destiny we cannot avoid.
When skiers reach the end of a run, most get
immediately into a lift line for their chance to ski again. They do not want
their rides to end.
Do-overs are popular among we humans. Reruns, sequels,
reunion tours, encores, rematches, double headers. When we experience something
we like, we want more. We want abundance.
Jesus said that he came that we--all of us gliding,
posing, falling and getting up again--can have life and have it abundantly. The
abundant life Jesus promises is not an endless rotation of repeat experiences,
though. It is one life. It is His life. And he invites us all to live it
with him.
Some people think the Christ life is a prize you
collect at the end of the last run, but there is so much more.
Jesus is the maker of the mountains. He is the source
of the snow, the sky, the clouds, the warming sun, icy rivers and starry skies.
He is the author of gravity, and also of the mystery of why it is so much
fun to slide and play and go fast and make angels in the snow.
We can spend a few days on his mountains. Or we
can spend an eternity living in Him. The thrill of following where Jesus leads
is the abundant life. It is the
adventure that never ends.
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