“Disappointing…”
That was the first word we uttered as we stood on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. A thick fog blanketed the entire canyon. In the miles between us and the faintly visible North Rim was white obscurity. Nothingness. Void.
We waited, praying the fog would burn off. But it got worse. At times, we could barely see our car, ten feet away in the parking lot. Grand views. Humph. My second time at the Canyon. First was in a blizzard. Two trips and I could not really say I had “seen” the Grand Canyon.
Thinking full stomachs and the sun’s rays might give us better vision, or at least better attitudes, we took a break for lunch.
But, in spite of our fervent wish that the sun’s insistent glare would give birth to a grand view, nature delivered clouds and fog all afternoon. For a moment, the sun would break through. Through the veil, among the shadows, we would get a tiny glimpse of majesty. And hope. And promise. Then in an instant, the clouds would rise and meet us face-to-face, obliterating everything and enveloping us in dampness. We snapped pictures any time there was a small clearing, knowing there were no guarantees for tomorrow. We made the best of what life gave us that day. And, I went to bed with a smile, telling my husband: “Today was a day of wonder. Even with the clouds.”
We booked a room on the canyon rim, expectant and hopeful. (Almost as rare as the fog blanketing the canyon is a last-minute available room.) As the first tentative fingers of sunlight filtered through our window, we threw on jeans and coats and raced to the rim. Again, only vast void and whiteness. We practiced the art of patience, and thanked God for the few small peeks we were given. Our spirits lightened a little. But, still, the fog rose and fell again, softened and thickened, teased and taunted.
Then, as the morning moved to midday, the fog suddenly rolled back. The clouds lifted, and the sky took on a flat, solid deep blue hue. There before us was the canyon, fully exposed. A gaping wound in the earth, beautiful in its starkness. Grand indeed. We drove from one end of the South Rim to the other, taking in the miracle of it all, hungry for even more. We used every bit of disk space we had on our cameras, and then resorted to capturing images on the phone and my IPad.
I have seen the Grand Canyon!
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I spent this morning looking at the pictures from our trip. Something remarkable was revealed in those images. The ones of a cloudless sky and fully opened chasm are beautiful. But they lack the complexity and wonder of those taken while we danced in the shadows and the fog.
So it is with the cancer journey. Some of my days are seeming vast nothingness. My vision is obscured. I feel disappointment, and I wait in anticipation for the fog to clear. I wonder about tomorrow. I desperately hang onto promise with little faith.
Better are those days when I do not let disappointment created by my own expectation cloud my real vision. Better are the days when I look for beauty and truth in all places and all circumstances, even among the shadows. Better are the days when I stay in the moment, knowing tomorrow holds no guarantee for anyone. Better are the days when I acknowledge that asking for a full day of sun is more, so much more than I deserve. Better are the days when I accept what I receive with an open heart.
And at the end of these days, I can look back and say, “Thank you God. Today was a day of wonder. Especially with the clouds.”
Sing to God, sing in praise of his name,
extol him who rides on the clouds;
rejoice before him—his name is the Lord. — Psalm 68:4
Jogging To The Finish Line 