Bunny slopes and Mountains

"This is the top of the mountain?" asked Asherel.
While any day skiing is a good day and beats doing Trig, I shared her concern. This was not a big mountain. When we first learned to ski, it seemed big. It no longer did. We had not returned to this mountain since that first time, when we learned to ski. From the top, taking the longest run, it took us less than 5 minutes to ski down. Yet the lift took closer to ten minutes to bring us back up, as it moved slowly, and stopped often. It was bitter cold and windy, so all that time sitting as opposed to working our muscles was taking a toll as well.

After the first run down, Asherel turned to me with a face coated in ice.
"Can you get me a face mask?" she asked.
This had been a last minute end of holiday hoorah, and a special deal, so it was still worth it. We ski again with our regular group at our favorite mountain Monday. It is supposed to be warmer, as well.

As we looked at the bunny slope where we had both learned to ski, I remembered how enormous I had thought that hill was. I remember feeling certain I would never be able to do this sport, and there was no way I would ever get on a chair lift, and definitely no way I would ever go to the top of the mountain.

Now, three years later, it has become my favorite winter sport, I go to the mountain tops regularly, and I can't believe I ever found the bunny slope daunting. Why can't I remember this every time I face a seemingly impossible task? Why am I still filled with self-doubt, worry, despair that I will never be up to the challenge? Why do I forget that in learning to ski, no one is expected to start on the top of the mountain? And why do I forget that even tottering with shaky legs down the bunny slope was once challenging...and fun?

Psalm 32:8 (NIV)
I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will counsel you with my loving eye on you.



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