At over 11,000 ft., Red Mountain Pass is one of my favorite places on earth. It actually was the Preacher's most beloved stretch of mountain and sky first. I was easily convinced 13 years ago when we honeymooned there.
We discovered a few years ago, a lesser known off-road trail called Yankee Girl. We've never shared its rocky hills with more than one other off-roader, nor have we ever experienced its beauty without a refreshing sprinkling of mountain rain.
It was no different this year. All seven of us packed into our Sequoia and loaded up The Horse And His Boy, a dramatic audio recording we borrowed from Grandma and never returned. The boys listened earnestly as they oohed and aahed out their open windows.
I anxiously drank in the carpets of wildflowers and gushing waterfalls, knowing the pressures of life would be pushed aside as long as the fresh air continued to stream through our four-wheeling machine.
There, life's toughest questions, perplexing situations, and most daunting challenges appeared incomparable to the grandeur and majesty of a sovereign and holy God and his creation. Then, we stopped for me to study some wildflowers on the side of the road, and I heard this:
"I was the lion who forced you to join with Aravis. I was the cat who comforted you among the houses of the dead. I was the lion who drove the jackals from you while you slept. I was the lion who gave the Horses the new strength of fear for the last mile so that you should reach King Lune in time. And I was the lion you do not remember who pushed the boat in which you lay, a child near death, so that it came to shore where a man sat, wakeful at midnight, to receive you.”
"Then it was you who wounded Aravis?"
"It was I"
"But what for?"
"Child," said the Voice, "I am telling you your story, not hers. I tell no one any story but his own."
"Who are you?" asked Shasta.
"Myself," said the Voice, very deep and low so that the earth shook: and again "Myself", loud and clear and gay: and then the third time "Myself", whispered so softly you could hardly hear it, and yet it seemed to come from all round you as if the leaves rustled with it.
If you know the story, or have heard the audio recording, you know why I was moved. In the company of flowers that needed no pruning, and rock-faces that required no sculpting from human hands, I was reminded through a C.S. Lewis' "children's story," that the King is in control of all things. He holds all things together, he delights in his creation, and he writes the story. He writes our family's story; the only one I need be concerned with. He is lovely...and I can trust him, whether on the rolling hills of life or through the rocky paths. He is telling our story.
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