Cloud Ripper

It wasn’t quite 5 and I was awoken by the alarm on Erik’s watch.

“How’d you sleep?” I eeked out.

“Ughh, I’m beginning to hate that question. Not very well. The wind was blowing dirt in my face all night.”

“Yeah, these little tents are awful.”

We placed and turned on our headlamps so we could put on as much of our gear inside the sorry-excuse-for-a-tent as we could before being forced into the cold of the early morning wilderness. I wasn’t too worried about it, though. My mind was captivated by the plan of the day. “This is going to be awesome.”

We crawled out from under the tarp held up by one little pole and tied down by 4 little stakes and saw our comrades doing the same. Off to my left, Zach was climbing out of his sleeping bag. “That guy has no interest in tents. Man, that’s hardcore.”

“Everyone ready? We’re gonna eat on the trail, so put your foodbars where you can reach ‘em,” said Jordan, our fearless leader for the day, as he was handing out our breakfast. A surge of nervous energy coursed through, if not the team, at least me. This was the first time I’d ever really been out in the wilderness, let alone would climb an actual mountain. Ah yeah.

That early in the morning, the only noise we heard was the rustling of synthetic pants and the stomping of heavy boots. I found myself colder than I had expected 20 minutes in, so when we stopped at a fork in the trail, I took the opportunity to put on the head-wrap I picked up in Jordan. I was probably the only ninja to have taken that trail in some time.

Jordan: “I think it’s this way.”

Fifteen minutes later, “No, it was the other way.” So back we went.

After twisting and curving and climbing and descending (but mostly climbing), we came out in a valley surrounded by mountain peaks. We had turned off our headlamps some time ago and with the position of the sun we could see all around. It was probably the most beautiful open field I had ever seen. We were walking alongside a little brook, there was tall brown grass covering the landscape, along the bed of the brook there were green bushes and around the perimeter of the valley were beautiful large, green trees. It was a good time to take a break and refill our water supply.

“How’s everybody doing?” Jordan asked just before we were to hit the trail again. “That’s our goal over there—Cloud Ripper.” He was pointing at one of the many peaks surrounding us. It wasn’t quite the farthest, but it was definitely the tallest.

Now that we were all wide-awake and back in the groove of trekking, you could hear us a mile away. This trek was a part of our “Intro Trip,” in the first week of our Wild DTS (that is, Discipleship Training School). We were still getting to know each other. Erik, who wound up being my best friend in the school, was from Tennessee, just outside of Nashville. I took to calling him a hippy, although he was really only “Granola.”

The more we walked, the less easily discernable path we had. We came upon mostly rocky ground, with some trees interspersed here and there. Our guide now was simply a path of karyns, little piles of rocks stacked on top of each other, marking out the trail.

We stopped at the base of a mountain made up entirely of, so it seemed, jagged, grey rocks varying in size from 1 foot across to the size of a very large man. “We’re at a saddle, which is the lowest point between two mountain peaks. If we were trying to cross the mountain, this is where we’d do it. We’re going to climb to the top of the saddle then walk along it to get to our peak. We’re going to climb making switch-backs (instead of climbing straight up against the steep grade of the mountain, we make wide zig-zags up the slope). And watch your fall line. Don’t climb directly under someone above you and make sure you aren’t climbing with someone in-line under you. These rocks are very loose and very dangerous. If you happen to kick one loose, yell ‘Rock!’ to let those below you know. We’ll take another break once we’re up the saddle.”

Off we went. Now, I’m pretty good about taking the advice of people who know what they’re talking about. I usually do, just not always. This was definitely one of the “not always” times. After zigging and zagging for a bit, feeling like I was going nowhere, and the appearance of our goal seeming, from my angle, not too far off, I decided to go for it. I threw myself up the slope, clambering for the top of the saddle. It took less than 7 minutes for me to resort to switching back again. Man, that bolt wore me out. I even had to take off my ninja head wrap.

I can’t tell you how much time it took for us to make it to the top of the saddle, but it definitely took some! As we were climbing, we all looked around, checking each other’s progress, yelling out encouragements as needed and calling out warning due to falling rocks. We slowly made it, one by one, and took a much-needed rest. Despite our weariness, our excitement only grew after the victory of this first leg. And I’ll tell you what, for as cold as it was making our way to the mountain, it was nothing compared to the chill and wind of being on that saddle. The wind was blowing so strongly that, when we jumped straight up, we would land a couple feet back from where we started. It was a little scary being on the top of a steep, rocky slope with powerful wind wanting to blow us back down. And that’s exactly why I was loving it. Well, the danger and the magnificent view. The field in the valley on the side we came up looked so beautiful, with the brook running through it, splitting here and there, coming back together; the giant white and grey rocks strewn about; the patches of green trees. The other side’s view was of grey rocks and brown dirt and 3 or 4 giant blue lakes. The land stretched for miles, as did the mountain range. We could even see trails on the distant mountains.

We took some pictures, I grabbed a rock for my mom (I still haven’t given it to her), I put my Jordanian ninja-wrap back on and off we went. The terrain didn’t change much as we walked across the spine of this mountain, ever nearer its peak. It just got steeper. And steeper.

As we snaked along from peak to peak, on the very ridge of the mountain, I became quite familiar with a mountaineering term that you may not have heard. Do you know what a “false peak” is? A false peak, or false summit, is, while looking up the mountain while hiking, you can’t see any mountain above and beyond a certain peak. You think that the peak you are now climbing towards is the highest point of the mountain, that this is your goal. Well… you’re wrong. Once you painstakingly make it to that point, you see beyond it much more mountain to go. So you go. And you get duped time and time again. I got to the point of not caring. “Whatever. I’m not going to get excited anymore! I’ll climb till I’m done climbing!” So I did. False peak, wrong peak, whatever. Keep moving!

At one point, there was a giant patch of what was once snow, but was now ice in the guise of snow, on the north side of the peak. Because it was out of the sun, it never thoroughly melted. It would just melt enough to be re-frozen during the night, making it densely packed ice. We still tried to scrape it into balls and pelt each other. A couple of us guys even wrote our names, *a-hem*.

Upward and onward we climbed. We came to a small collection of peaks, each within 100 or so feet of each other. We took a second to gauge which was the highest, then found it! The peak of Cloud Ripper! Just over to the west, not 200 feet away! We all made a mad scramble to the peak, throwing caution to the wind! (Not really, we were always very safe). We had newfound energy with the exhilaration coursing through our veins.

At long last, at the very least 4 hours since we left camp, we did it! We stood in triumph! We had bagged the mountain! All 13,501 feet of Cloud Ripper was now under my belt. I had climbed my first mountain!

I even made a point to sit (I dare not stand!) on the pinnacle of the pinnacle! There was also a journal in a watertight container lodged in the rocks at the top. We each joined the list of names of all the people who had come before us. I left a little note, too. I don’t remember exactly what it said, but something about the goodness, glory and beauty of God.

This was the first week I had ever gone backpacking in my life. It was the first time I had done any real physical exertion since junior high. I had smoked my last cigarette only days before this trek. It had only been 7 months since I came back to God, giving up my intentional, out-right rebellion and smoking crystal meth. Despite all of that, God Himself gave me the grace to kick my own ass and know Him, love Him, follow Him, learn from Him and enjoy Him at the peak of this mountain, in the middle of the Eastern Sierra Nevada Mountain Range.

The view before, back on the saddle, was nothing compared to the view atop Cloud Ripper. We could see miles and miles of mountaintops stretching all around us. We could see lake after lake peppering the landscape. And, in the style of our mountain’s namesake, we were enveloped by clouds all around us. I wanted to grab one like Jasmine, in Aladdin, but alas, they weren’t that close. God is beautiful and God is strong. If ever you have doubts, just look at His creation. It’s a reflection of Him, so we can know and love Him better.

After some more pictures, we descended less than 50 feet, so as to get out of the harsh wind, ate an energy packed snack and began our long journey back to camp.

Homeless Jim

Ok, so he wasn't actually homeless. But I christened him Homeless Jim shortly after meeting him (although, I don't think he ever knew that that's what I called him).

You all know him (if you've spent any time at Borders whatsoever). He was the 64 year old man with straggly grey hair and a big, bushy beard (usually... sometimes he kept it trim). He was the gentleman in the dirty jacket with all of the plastic bags who had the same routine every morning (at least when I worked at Borders).

He would come in just as the store was opening (sometimes he'd be off to the side smoking a cigarette, if he happened to arrive early). Whether he was out front or was walking in as I was getting the cafe ready for the day, it was always the same.

"Hey, man. How's it going?"
"Aay, all right."
"Anything new?"
"*gruffy*NAAAH, nothing. ...Oh, did you hear about [this thing in the news]?"
"No, what's up?"
"Oh, these sh*theads in Sacramento... I mean, my God, could they be any more brain dead?"
"Man, that's crazy."
"Yeah. ...So you gonna do any work today?"
"Don't count on it."
"*gruffy*YEAH, figures!"
"All right, I'll be talkin' to ya."
"Yeah."

He'd get his coffee (and sometimes a bagel, depending on how generous other customers had been that week, or how lucky he was to find some cash or a gift card), grab a couple different newspapers, sit at the same table he always sat at and read.

Sometimes we'd get to talking about different restaurants in California or he'd tell me his recipe for a mean lasagna ("Now a good lasagna takes 2 days to make...") or we'd just shoot the breeze, talking about nothing.

He made sure that I knew every group of people that came in to Borders that he didn't like, from the "gimps" to the "fags." I'd always say, "hey, come on, man. they're people, they're cool." He always made sure I knew, but he never pushed it. And believe it or not, before I quit working there, there was even a mentally challenged, regular customer that Jim bought a coffee for! Can you believe that? Bitter old man with a soft heart!

Jim was probably my favorite reason for coming in to Borders. I loved to harass him (but only as payback!). He'd be sitting in his other regular chair (after reading the papers and having a smoke, he'd come in to the ring of cushy chairs, sit at the same one, every day, and read books on World War II, the weapons, technology and vehicles used during said war, books about old time actors and singers, magazines on cars and, more often than not, he'd be reading good, ol'-fashioned comic books [even the newer ones]) and I'd sneak up behind him and put a magnetic strip on his shoulder, so when he'd go outside for his next cigarette, he'd set off the alarm. I was always quick to let every one know what was going on so he wouldn't get in any real trouble.

Other times I would sneak up behind him (always with the sneaking!) and try to surreptitiously snatch his plastic bags that contained all of his belongings. Sometimes I'd pull it off, other times I wouldn't. Either way, it was always fun (even if he acted angry). The coolest part about that was getting the other customers involved. They would be sitting around us, as well, and we'd catch eyes as I was grabbing the stash, then they'd look at Jim, look at me with a wry grin, look down at their book, peak over at Jim. Whether I'd get busted or not, we'd all share a laugh, or at least a smile. Ah, the community at Borders.

I was constantly in effort to earn gold stars from Jim. There was a Harry Potter book release event and countless little plastic, gold stars were strewn all about the store. If ever I did something that met his approval (which was rare [but not really]), he'd give me a star. If I did something he didn't like, he threatened to take them away and give them to Molly, a co-worker of mine. I acted like I wouldn't care if he took them away, hoping that maybe, that way, he wouldn't.

Jim was always there to share a laugh, a joke, a recipe ("...then you just add salt to taste"), directions to this awesome, hole-in-the-wall restaurant in Timbucktoo, just off the coast, or to threaten me or ask my wife (well, my soon-to-be at the time) if she needed him to beat me up.

For being a crotchity, old man, he had a lot of friends. There were us, of course, then there were my friends, Aaron, Jimmy and Chris, who I introduced him to, then there were all of the other regular customers who had gotten to know Jim over the years, sitting at Borders. There were Barb and Charlie, Orthodox Mike, there was Ron, the other old guy who would come and play pinochle with him. There were countless other customers who would buy him a drink or a bagel, bring him a Christmas gift or a birthday card (November 7th) or just hang out with him for a little while. Even an old Borders employee, David, would come and smoke with him, always leaving a handful of cigarettes in Jim's pocket before taking off.

I'll tell you one thing, though. Jim didn't always just take. He gave me himself in friendship. He let me in on aspects of his life that I'm sure he didn't share with just anybody. He loved me and my wife and our friends, even if he didn't always know how. One time, around Christmas, after finding $100 in the street, he even took my wife and me out to lunch. I'll never forget the cashier's face at Boston Market when, after ordering all of this food and expecting the money to come from my wallet, it came from this homeless guy's. Big, selfless jerk.

So I got a call last night, about 9 o'clock. It was from Barbara, the regular from Borders. She wanted me to know that, since she knew Jim and I were friends, Jim was in the hospital. He had an infection in his blood, as well as heart, kidney and lung problems. Even though they knew of no family, the nurses were going to let anyone see him who wanted to see him.

Here's the craziness of that. Barbara saw us with him Wednesday night (which is what made her think of us last night) because we, last minute decision, went to Borders to hang out with another friend of ours. After taking him to the hospital, she talked to an old manager at Borders, Neal, to get my home number. Completely illegal, but totally awesome: he gave it to her. She called the house, talked to my parents, who just so happened to be home, and they gave her my cell phone number. We talked to Barb and got down there around 9.45. By the grace of God, 2 sets of people cleared us to go see him. All of these intricate details worked out so precisely so we could see him in his final hours. God loves us. He loves all of us.

So we got to talk to him. He had tubes and pipes poking in every-which-where as well as tape holding the breathing tube coming from his mouth in place. He wasn't able to talk, but he could understand us. The entire time, his eyes had tears wanting to burst forth.

Rhiannon and I told him we were with him. I made a few stupid, awkward jokes ("So, can I have your Batman hat now?"), but otherwise didn't know what else to say. We made sure he knew, if not before, then now, for certain, no question about it, that we love him. He tapped his nose. As clearly as I could, feeling stupid and embarrassed and afraid I would be harassing a dying man, that, anything and everything he saw in my life that was good or beautiful or loving, especially in our relationship, that all of that is the love Jesus has for me spilling on to him. Somewhere in all of my blabbering, he tapped his nose. "There's probably a lot of stuff in your life that you feel dumb about. It's all good, man. All you need to do is let Jesus love you." (I pray that I was that clear in our actual conversation.)

He was fighting his breathing machine and he kept bending his arm that had the IV hooked up to it (blocking the flow). The whole time, different nurses and attendants kept walking in and out. I could tell he was scared. I held his hand for a good, long time. The first time I tried to caress his head, he turned away.

The whole time Rhiannon, who was in an extreme amount of pain herself, but still opted to see Jim instead of going home to take medicine, was right with me. She told Jim she loved him and was by my side, caressing my back the entire time. She stepped out, for just a minute and at my request, to call Chris and update him on all of the goings-on. When she came back in, I was at Jim's other side, holding that hand, so he'd keep his IV arm straight (ornery old man).

Finally, Jim looked me in the eye. He did more than look. He locked. We barely broke eye contact for 10 minutes. And this time, when i caressed his head, he didn't turn away. I don't understand "eyespeak," but I'm sure he was thanking us for coming and who knows what else. His sad, blue, tear-filled eyes. I pray that he let himself see the love of Jesus.

I started to tell him about how Rhiannon and I met. I gave him a little personal history, touched on all of my sordid affairs, and was about to get in to actually meeting Rhiannon, when the nurse came in and said it was time to go. She needed to give him a bath. I kissed his hand and told him I'd come back later to finish the story.

We left right when our friends arrived. Chris, Jimmy and Aaron showed up to the hospital to show Jim they were with him and that they loved him, too. They weren't allowed up, but I pray he was told they came.

I set my alarm for 2 in the morning, so I could call and check up on him. My alarm went off and I went straight back to sleep.

I called at 7.30, when I actually got up, to discover that he had died at about 3, just an hour after I would have called him. Naturally, I felt like an idiot for not coming through for him, in his final moments.

The cry of our hearts (ALL of our hearts, Rhiannon's and the guys') was that he wouldn't die alone, that someone (physical, spiritual or Divine) would be with him in his final moments. Rhiannon and I cried out our sorrow that this is a world where people have to die alone. We all prayed that Jesus would be with him and that he would receive the God Who loves him. I was angry with myself because I wasn't an answer to my own prayer, so I could get 10 seconds extra sleep.

The guys told me that, so the story goes, while no one wants to be alone when they die, they are truly, really comforted in knowing that they're not alone in the general sense, in the "people care about me even if they're not standing next to me as I pass" sense. In fact, most people wait to die until the people that are with them leave the room.

It was an honor knowing Homeless Jim. I had a great time being in his life and loved that he was in mine. It humbles me that I, some punk who loves Jesus, could bring him peace, joy and comfort, most especially in his final hours, just by loving him as imperfectly as I can, in the style of Jesus, Who loves us so perfectly.

The coroner's office have found a surviving child (adult) in Hollister. We've yet to see how that has turned out. There is a memorial service in the works, hopefully at Borders, and there's talk of a collection for donation to the Gospel Mission in his name.

Walter James "Homeless Jim" Worsham (had no idea, did ya? Walter?!), may the peace of Christ be with you and may our Lord welcome you into His Kingdom. Amen.

The nurse I talked to this morning, based on all of the people who came to see him in his short time in the hospital (8, by my count), after telling me that he passed said, "He must have been a sweet, old man."

"Yeah."

I didn't have the heart to tell her the truth.

long time, no see

yeah, yeah. i know. but here i am.

so things are going really well. we're having fun being married, learning to hash out everything that comes our way and growing more and more in love by the day. you cant beat that!

ywam is going well. rhiannon has been working on a couple of paintings that she is just about finished with. once she's done we'll get them online.

we're now spending time (or at least wanting to, being so busy!) studying and learning more about the Kingdom of God on Earth through all of its different Traditions and expressions. we have a beautiful, rich and diverse History.

and of course, we're in the process of making our own. be Free to love and serve the Lord... and each other.