The Hairpin Turns of Faith

When I was ten and growing up in Colorado in the mid-1960s, relatives from Iowa would sometimes visit us. On these occasions, the family would pile into a red Rambler station wagon and drive for an hour or more to experience the many places of interest, towns, and scenery of the beautiful Rocky Mountains west of Denver.

One such excursion led us toward Colorado Springs and Pikes Peak. The mountain loomed in the distance at a majestic 14,115 feet. The journey began joyfully, each of us expecting adventure on the highway up the mountain. There's only one road up to the summit; it's nineteen miles long, has 156 switchback turns, and climbs 6,715 feet from its entrance.

My dad, a good driver, cautiously made each hairpin turn as we watched the trees thin out. My brother and I, seated in the very back, pressed our noses to the window. The rear-facing seats were my favorite, as we sat backward and the view of where we had come filled the rear and side windows. As we gained altitude, we could feel the change in pressure as the air thinned and the temperature outside the car dropped.

My grandparents came from elevations below 1,500 feet above sea level and noticeably felt the effects of the thinner air as we climbed. Their bodies reacted as each hairpin turn brought us a few feet higher. I remember turns that would have my grandmother clutching the armrest, praying the door would not open and send her flying out. The vistas below caused shortness of breath in and of themselves, but she was dealing with both a physical response to the elevation and a mental response of fear, and not doing very well with either!

As you can imagine, the conversations among the adults became less animated as my grandmother concentrated on her breathing, my stoic grandfather focused straight ahead, and my father navigated the hairpin turns. My mother didn’t say much, leaning her head back and fixing her gaze on the side that didn’t challenge her nerves. She struggled with these visits.

But my brother and I chatted enthusiastically as we climbed to the summit, hoping to see a woodchuck or varmint. My advantage, seated backward, was a beautiful panoramic view on three sides, like sitting in a surround-screen movie theater. My brother, his gloves and boots beside him, made his wish for snow known, hoping the weather would cooperate.

The View Depends on Where You're Sitting

The suffering of the early followers of Christ and our own suffering today make me think of the twists, turns, elevation, and atmospheric changes of Pikes Peak. I think of that panoramic view I had in the back of the Rambler. While my mother and grandmother had one-sided views, mine looked back on where we had just traveled, and it was breathtaking! I didn’t experience the uncertainty of what was in front of me.

I know that external circumstances, as well as internal doubts, fears, or anxiety, will tempt us to circle the mountain, try to control where we’re going, turn around, or simply give in. But I know from experience there is a summit!

For it is not a question of if but of when trials will come into our lives, and, just as on our trip up Pikes Peak, what we are looking at influences our perspective. The climb may be daunting, but the view at the summit is worth it. Similarly, the mountains we face may be steep, but Christ walks with us, and in time, what we see from the other side can be beautiful.

The Mountain Peaks Are His

I live in a rural, wooded area now, and I miss the mountains. Yet, my life has not been without mountains—spiritual and physical summits and valleys. As I walk my own faith journey, I can understand and relate to the physical reactions of my grandmother and others on that long-ago road.

Psalm 95:3-4 says this:

For the Lord is a great God, a great King above all gods. The depths of the earth are in his hand, and the mountain peaks are his.

I am eternally grateful for the Mountain of Calvary and for Christ’s sacrifice, which paid for my sins. Whether our journeys have included real mountain adventures or faith-testing mountains, enter His rest; the mountain peaks are His!

I leave you with a quote from nineteenth-century preacher Arthur Mursell from his lecture on Psalm 95:4:

“What is it that makes you so anxious to climb the hill? The view. To see the landscape lying outspread before the eye; to see the country stretching away to the distant horizon; to realize the sense of vastness; to revel in the subtle poetry of distance; this is enough to make you toil up the steep path, and scale the rugged crag, and for a moment call the spreading scene your own.” [1]

[1] A. Mursell, “The Strength of the Hills,” sec. IV, “Outlook,” Bible Hub.