A longer post than normal.
I met James the ski instructor on Sunday, December 17. I’d put him at 43, give or take a few years. I based that on his story not on his looks because the dry Colorado air made him seem more like 55. Along with Traci and the Oldest Sister, I signed up for a boarding lesson and wound up in James’ Level 1 class.
He wasn’t the greatest teacher because he sometimes gave us contradictory instructions and spent a little too much time on the “philosophy” of snowboarding. Pause to allow the absurdity of a “philosophy” of snowboarding to sink in.
What’s more, his spit built up in the corner of his mouth like someone who’d lost feeling in his lips. I thought maybe he’d hit his head on the ice in a bad fall and damaged the part of the brain that tells the rest of us, “Wipe your mouth or at least lick your lips.” I stared at the corner of his mouth thinking, “Can you feel that or what?”
What I liked about James wasn’t his teaching method – or his accumulating spittle. I learned far more two days later from Pete, a 20 year old instructor who wiped his mouth and taught me how to “feel” the board. No, I liked the stories James told. In a former life he’d been the CFO of some company that mined some obscure metal in some dangerous place in South America. He’d given it all up to play in the snow.
His stories were a stretch beyond believable, but they were entertaining. I didn’t catch the details, but somewhere in between leaving behind the corporate life and landing in the powder of Steamboat Springs, he lost a wife, a daughter, a house in Hilton Head, and a nice car.
He tried just a little too hard to get us to validate his lifestyle by saying about a dozen times, “Isn’t life great here in winter paradise?” But somewhere in between the truth and the stories he spun I caught a glimpse of a soul that fought and beat the slow death that comes from doing the “corporate thing.”
I like to imagine James came home from a skiing vacation and one day ripped off his tie and told his wife, “I’m going to go teach snowboarding now,” and hopped the next plane to Hayden with a mule bag full of ski’s, poles, and parkas. The powder will do that to you: Make you ask yourself why you do what you do, make you try to remember when you started doing what you are doing, leave you to wonder how much longer you can do it, and even if you should.
That was on Sunday.
By Thursday I’d gotten good enough on the board to board the peak of the mountain. I was all alone headed down a trail called Cowboy Coffee when I turned the bend and before me was a view of the Yampa Valley that took my breath. I could go no further. I did a quick heel turn, skidded to a stop, and sat down to savor the splendor that God had poured out for me drink in.
I sat solitary in snow ten inches deep. The woods were so quiet that I could hear the snow landing on me and the ground around me. You really can hear snow land in the Big Room when it gets quiet enough. It’s corny, but like a little kid I actually stuck my tongue out to taste the falling snow.
I met James the ski instructor on Sunday, December 17. I’d put him at 43, give or take a few years. I based that on his story not on his looks because the dry Colorado air made him seem more like 55. Along with Traci and the Oldest Sister, I signed up for a boarding lesson and wound up in James’ Level 1 class.
He wasn’t the greatest teacher because he sometimes gave us contradictory instructions and spent a little too much time on the “philosophy” of snowboarding. Pause to allow the absurdity of a “philosophy” of snowboarding to sink in.
What’s more, his spit built up in the corner of his mouth like someone who’d lost feeling in his lips. I thought maybe he’d hit his head on the ice in a bad fall and damaged the part of the brain that tells the rest of us, “Wipe your mouth or at least lick your lips.” I stared at the corner of his mouth thinking, “Can you feel that or what?”
What I liked about James wasn’t his teaching method – or his accumulating spittle. I learned far more two days later from Pete, a 20 year old instructor who wiped his mouth and taught me how to “feel” the board. No, I liked the stories James told. In a former life he’d been the CFO of some company that mined some obscure metal in some dangerous place in South America. He’d given it all up to play in the snow.
His stories were a stretch beyond believable, but they were entertaining. I didn’t catch the details, but somewhere in between leaving behind the corporate life and landing in the powder of Steamboat Springs, he lost a wife, a daughter, a house in Hilton Head, and a nice car.
He tried just a little too hard to get us to validate his lifestyle by saying about a dozen times, “Isn’t life great here in winter paradise?” But somewhere in between the truth and the stories he spun I caught a glimpse of a soul that fought and beat the slow death that comes from doing the “corporate thing.”
I like to imagine James came home from a skiing vacation and one day ripped off his tie and told his wife, “I’m going to go teach snowboarding now,” and hopped the next plane to Hayden with a mule bag full of ski’s, poles, and parkas. The powder will do that to you: Make you ask yourself why you do what you do, make you try to remember when you started doing what you are doing, leave you to wonder how much longer you can do it, and even if you should.
That was on Sunday.
By Thursday I’d gotten good enough on the board to board the peak of the mountain. I was all alone headed down a trail called Cowboy Coffee when I turned the bend and before me was a view of the Yampa Valley that took my breath. I could go no further. I did a quick heel turn, skidded to a stop, and sat down to savor the splendor that God had poured out for me drink in.
I sat solitary in snow ten inches deep. The woods were so quiet that I could hear the snow landing on me and the ground around me. You really can hear snow land in the Big Room when it gets quiet enough. It’s corny, but like a little kid I actually stuck my tongue out to taste the falling snow.
In those moments I remembered why I got into this whole religion business to begin with. I remembered that at heart I am an admirer of God’s work and want to share the wonder with others. My ministry used to resemble some kid jumping up and down, shouting to his friends, “Hey guys, look over here at this!” Instead of being a docent on the spiritual journey, I’ve become a relatively impotent religious administrator who knows way more about budgets and church logistics than should be required for any child of God.I thought of Lester in American Beauty saying, “I know that I didn't always used to feel this ... sedated. But it’s never too late to get it back.”
There in the snow I had communion with God and resolved that I am undoubtedly called to ministry, but I need to "get it back." God reminded me that I’m in this for the wonder and the journey, not the personal glory or the approval of others. Where this latest revelation will lead is uncertain, but I believe this:
God saved me one more time on that mountainside.
There in the snow I had communion with God and resolved that I am undoubtedly called to ministry, but I need to "get it back." God reminded me that I’m in this for the wonder and the journey, not the personal glory or the approval of others. Where this latest revelation will lead is uncertain, but I believe this:
God saved me one more time on that mountainside.
1 comment:
Great story. Yet another example of how God breaks our heart in a positive way.
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