Taking on the Black Hill of Death

This past summer, I accompanied my parish youth group on a one-week mission trip to Nicaragua, where we helped build homes and a school near the northern city of Chinendega. But first, we were told that we were going to climb Cerro Negro, a 2,400-foot high volcano that had last erupted about a decade ago. When we arrived at the site, dubbed (jokingly, I hoped) the “black hill of death,” I stood in awe of the giant black formation. I wondered, and even doubted, if I could climb to the top along a narrow path among the jagged rocks and boulders and then make my way down the smooth slope of the other side of the hill that was covered with foot-deep volcanic gravel. I knew, of course, that I had an easy out. I could say that I just didn’t feel up to it and no one would question me. But I decided to go for it.

I thought it might be tough, but I wasn’t ready for just how tough it was. I stopped often along the way to catch my breath and gather the strength and will to go on. When I reached the top of the first winding and difficult path that led to another narrow path that shot straight along the crest of the volcano, my heart fell when I realized how much I had left to do. But I put one foot in front of the other, I put my head down and just walked, and with time I found myself standing at the highest point of the volcano.

The pay off was great. The views were spectacular, and I got to share the accomplishment with the others in the group, including my son, Jon, and his girlfriend, Jess. We cheered on those who were still making their way up. We shared stories of the ascent and a simple meal of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We took photos of each other rejoicing at our accomplishment. And then we headed down – a joyous descent, sliding and jumping through the loose volcanic gravel in minutes and making the multi-hour ascent a mere memory.

I learned a lot about myself that day. I learned I could do more than I thought I could. I learned the power of “one step at a time” and I remembered my high school coaches’ encouragement to get past a little bit of hurt by “walking it off.” But for me, this day was about much more than walking or physical strength.

I rediscovered an inner strength that I know comes from God. I reconnected with the idea that we are called to take care of our bodies because they are the temples of the Holy Spirit. I’m not going to become a marathon runner any time soon, but my experience on Cerro Negro, along with the intense physical labor of the rest of the week, awakened in me a need to both push myself a little physically (as my body with its disease will allow, of course) and, more importantly, to learn to call upon God as the source of my strength.

So when I just can’t do it, or when I am winded or fall, the greatest blessing is knowing that I have a God who sees me in my weakness, who knows me by name, and who picks me up and carries me the rest of the way. I am not ashamed of my weakness, for it is just an outward sign that there is still healing to be done inside me.