This morning we had our coffee at the top of the logging road we’ve tread for the last 5 1/2 years. We drove to the top instead of hiking because my geologist’s heart isn’t ready for that kind of exertion, but we are hopeful that it will be come the appearance of glacier lilies next spring. We’ve hiked that same 1.7 miles so many times that we’ve lost count, but we never forget that every inch is holy ground. But then every inch of this beautiful broken world is holy, and sometimes we simply forget to remember that.
Let’s not forget to remember.
This morning, making our way from our rig to our favorite hillside spot, we remembered the time before my total knee replacement surgery. I could make it to the top, but going down was too painful for my old, arthritic knee. We would share sips of coffee from the thermos cup (what my mom called a “loving cup”), read Richard Rohr, talk about whatever was on our hearts that morning, and simply take in the beauty all around us. Tom would pack up and hightail it down to the car, leaving me and Gracie-the-trusty-chocolate guardadoodle on the hillside. Seeing our red truck coming around the bend to pick me up was a picture of what sacrificial love can look like, and in our not-so-healthy moments, sometimes we simply forget to remember that.
Let’s not forget to remember.
Sitting with our coffee on this cold fall morning, bundled in down jackets, wool beanies, and fleece lined pants, we watched the sun hit the far side of the hill and remembered another chilly morning. On a back pack to High Camp—one of our favorite places on earth, high on the flanks of Mt. Adams—“we” broke our ultra-lite camp stove. “Someone” mistook it for an earlier one and stuck the match in the wrong spot, which meant that we couldn’t boil water to make our much anticipated Backpacker’s Pantry dinner. Or breakfast the next morning. Or a hot morning cup of coffee. A nearby party loaned us their stove, and we cooked dinner. And breakfast. And coffee. The next morning we took our cold breakfast and cold coffee, found a sunny spot on the far side of the hill, and gave thanks for a meal that would sustain us. Every meal is meant to be received with thanks, and sometimes in our privileged and/or hurried lives, we simply forget to remember that.
Let’s not forget to remember.
Before heading down the hill we read this morning’s offering from Richard Rohr , written by Dr. Barbara Holmes (PLEASE READ IT).Her call to let love lead our actions, reminded us of our trip to the Conspire Conference in 2019 in Albuquerque, NM. We gathered together with several thousand other humans, and for three days listened together, wondered together, shared meals and bottles of wine together, hoped, prayed sang, rejoiced, and lamented together. It was holy time. But then all time is holy, and sometimes in our haste, we simply forget to remember that.
Let’s not forget to remember.
From our familiar perch we caught glimpses of Mt. Hood, Mt. St. Helens, and Mt. Adams. My geologist has stood on top of all three, I’ve been on top of two, and grateful I didn’t have to attempt the third. Seeing Mt. Adams, we remembered back to the time we stood on the top, and the time that we didn’t. In 2017 we summited with friends late in the day. Meaning that we began our descent later than is wise. Meaning that in the growing darkness we lost our way and spent a night shivering on the mountain, sharing one space blanket between the four of us. We remembered the Perseid Meteor Shower that dazzled us until the sun came up and we could find our stiff-jointed way down. In 2022 we (barely) made it to basecamp where we would spend the night before attempting a summit in the morning. Four of us made it to the top, four of us stayed behind in basecamp, cheering the summiteers on. Making it to the top was holy, as was the willingness to stay behind and celebrate the accomplishment of others. But then it is all meant to be holy, and sometimes we simply forget to remember that.
Let’s not forget to remember.
Driving down this morning we were quiet, taking in all that this road has meant, means, and will mean in the years and hikes to come, and in the years when we might not be able to hike but will always be able to remember. It brought to mind another trip up this road before my geologist went under the skilled cardiac surgeons’s knife. It was a collective trip to the top, a few in our rig, the rest of us on foot. We were a rag-tag group of elders, middles, and littles, and it wasn’t about who could get to the top first, but making sure everyone got there. Together. Life is a team sport, and we belong to one another. Sometimes we simply forget to remember that.
This morning was a reminder that remembering matters.
When all is said and done, let’s not forget to remember.