"Was the juice worth the squeeze?" -The Girl Next Door
"The pain made the city more beautiful. The story made us different characters than if we'd showed up at the ending an easier way. It made me think about the hard lives so many people have had, the sacrifices they've endured, and how those people will see heaven differently from those of us who have had easier lives." -Donald Miller, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years
Three weeks ago I finished the trip I've often described as my "bucket list experience." I hiked to Machu Picchu and spent a week in Peru exploring all about the Inca empire. To say that it didn't fail to meet expectations would be an understatement.
There are two ways to get to the cloud city. For the quick day tripper, one can ride a train into the city of Aguas Calientes ("Hot Springs") and then take a bus up the winding roads to the entryway. That's how most make the journey.
Or you can hike through the Andes Mountain range to get there the way the Inca would have. It's a 4 day hike that covers 43 km that rises over 6,000 ft to the heights that mimic the summits of the Rocky Mountains. Air is thin the whole way and your bones and muscles ache from the outset. To limit the impact on the trail, only 500 people are allowed to start a day, including porters and guides. That means that only about 120 travelers are allowed to get on the trail each day.
I hiked. And it was hard!
I've summited 14er's in Colorado (mountains whose peaks are above 14,000 ft), but this was something different. To climb up and down a mountain in Colorado is one thing. To do it over three different passes, one even called Dead Woman's Pass, going up and then demoralizingly down again while carrying all of your gear on your back was a slightly fuller task. Every step up was a trial, and every step down was just as straining. At the end of most days we'd drink our Peruvian tea to recover and then pass out around 7:00pm to try to recover for the next day.
But that wasn't all the trail was. It was indescribably exhilarating. You felt all at once as if your legs might fall off, while all the while knowing that what you were seeing around you couldn't be captured by cameras. There were no "so-so views." Every direction, at every point, you had to simply stand in awe at what God and the Inca had built. The mist would roll into the valley of a campground through the passes of the mountains and roll out just as majestically minutes later. Snow-capped peaks and Inca ruins cut into the sides of mountains left words unnecessary.
Ten years ago someone shared a book with me: A Million Miles in a Thousand Years.
The cover had the spokes of a bicycle wheel up close and it had been
recommended during a church service (neither of which were particularly
inspiring traits). But I opened it, and what began as a slow grind
became a rush of pages as I was captured by the idea of my life as a story. I wasn't living a particularly interesting one at the time. Neither was the author. So when someone suggested he hike to Machu Picchu, a girl he was trying to chase, he signed up!
Ever since, it's the trip I wanted to take. Somehow I figured it help me live a better story. It did!
I experienced something Donald did in his hike. When you come over the last pass and look down into Machu Picchu, all the aches and pains suddenly fade into the rearview. The beauty and majesty of the city sitting down below trump everything. It's a payoff of payoffs. And then you descend.
But an odd thing happens when you arrive. Your troop of 100 travelers, strangers molded into a community by nothing more than the sheer experience of challenges overcome, is swallowed by the hoards of thousands who chose the train and windy road, the easy way. And without realizing it, you realize that Machu Picchu may have the same stones and scenery for everyone there, but it's not the same city.
For them, it was a beautiful stop for pictures and memories. It was everything they'd seen on Trip Advisor and in National Geographic. For us, it was the end of a taxing and indescribable journey. It was the culmination of four days of challenges overcome and the footprints of a long-lost civilization. It was the end of a better story.
The best stories in life involve conflict and overcoming adversity. No one tells a story that's worth reading of someone who wakes up, goes about their day, prepares dinner, and goes to sleep. There's no risk. There's no suspense. It just happens. Which is why I'm so confused when I look around and see our great efforts being put into the elimination of discomfort and pain. We remove ourselves from people and ideas that make us uncomfortable. We take fewer risks for more predictable outcomes. We live inside smaller boxes with more creature comforts because comfort and our own happiness are the ultimate goals.
But pain is a remarkable teacher. I'm not suggesting God creates pain to teach us things, like some kind of cosmic bully. But when I read through scripture, I see God use people who have gone through messy business. And then I see God send those people into dangerous and unpredictable scenarios. It's as if God recognizes that the people God can use best aren't people who've put all the sides of their lives together, but rather people who've seen conflict and adversity and come battered and bruised on the other side, because the stories God's interested in telling are big, and there will be challenges on the road. But like Machu Picchu, the payoff on the other side will be more than words or cameras could ever fully capture.
I'm convinced, the more I read the Bible and the deeper I try to dive into the story God is telling in the world, that that story is not about me. It's not about me getting the big promotion or the perfect partner. It's not about my reaching salary goals or even my personal satisfaction. It's not about my needs being met at every corner. We've learned to blame others and our circumstances when we're not getting what we want. We've misappropriated God's story and superimposed God's name onto our desires. It's ironic that I've often assumed that God wanted for me exactly what I want for me. We've learned to be disappointed at God when we don't get what we want.
But in my walk through the Andes, I was reminded, as I peered out on the mountains that God had carved and my calves rang out for want of oxygen and rest, that the best stories come with bumps and bruises. They aren't easy or safe. They aren't simply about our wants. But when we arrive at the end of them, we'll know our story was deeper and richer than those who took the train. We'll know it was better.
May we be people who jump headfirst into the stories God is writing, unperturbed by the risks and challenges ahead. May we let go of our needs and desires for something even better. May we let pain teach us and failure equip us. And may we keep putting one foot in front of the other.
forever unfinished...
