Bryce Canyon

Last summer, my wife Sarah and I went to Utah and traveled to a few different national parks. After abandoning plans in the desert and traveling to the mountains, we spent most of the week at Bryce Canyon, a beautiful fairyland of red sandstone and pinyon pine, running streams and quaking aspen. It’s one of my favorite places on earth. It’s also *very* hot in the summer (cooler than the rest of Utah, but still … blazing.)

Going rim to rim in the canyon was how we wanted to spend our last day, and we decided to do the full 13 mile hike. We had to start early in the morning, in order to be done before the sun really hit its peak and the afternoon thunderstorms rolled in. We made our snacks, filled our water bottles, checked the map, and hit the trail.

We took this path.

I could always see about this far ahead of me and on this section, it was all uphill.  

On our hike, we passed some people who had been to the top and they *said* the view was great, they *said* the path was gratifying, and they *said* that it “was worth every step.”

We couldn’t see the top on the way up. Sometimes we would catch a glimpse, but when we did, it still seemed so very very far away, so very high up, and we couldn’t fathom how the trail would get us from *here* to *there*.

All of us may have felt this way at many points during this spring term. We couldn’t see where our path was heading, or what was coming next. And on top of not having the answers, what each of us had to do that day, and the next, was HARD. Whether it was juggling work and school, or managing your child’s disappointment at yet another cancellation, or just trying to get a good night’s sleep in the middle of unrest and worry -- that trail was uphill, and it was rocky.

Sarah and I could have turned around because the path was hard, we certainly saw other people who did. We would have seen some good scenery, but we would have known we were missing something.

 So we just kept putting one foot in front of the other (sometimes very slowly), kept drinking water, ate our snacks, and laughed about the silly chipmunks. We stopped occasionally to look at where we’d been and appreciate the new views. But still, one foot in front of the other.

This one-step-at-a-time is where growth happens. When we’re hiking, we’re building muscles and stamina. Most days, in life or on the trail, we’re going a little farther than we ever thought we could. 

We have to trust that *something* good is waiting for you at the top, even if it’s just having a new understanding of how very much we’re capable of. I’m not even going to pretend that a hike in a canyon comes close to the very real loss and grief that 2020 put in our way, but if it can offer a small bit of insight and maybe even hope, then I’ll take it.

 If you’re a parent staring into an uncertain future, the one-step-at-a-time approach means you’re learning to trust the path. Even when you can’t see the finish line. You’re building patience, and inner strength. 

Throughout our lives, there will be challenging times and we will all know people who will turn around, who will opt for a clearer path.  Sometimes that person will be us, and that’s ok.  But in the times when we stick it out -- call on our patience and our strength -- put our trust in something bigger than ourselves -- in those times, we grow.  We change.  We become the people we didn’t know we could be.  And it will be worth every step.

Sarah and I finished the trail that day -- the sun was already high in the sky, and the rains muddied the trail, threatening to wash out the path.  But the views from the top were more magical than I could have imagined. 

And now, as parents, we too are between a rock and a hard place. Most decisions are imperfect -- and without a crystal ball, we can’t know what the impacts of any choice will be. And still we have to choose. I wish I had easy answers. I wish I could say that there was a flow chart, an algorithm -- that you could just plug in your variables and out would come the clear solution. In the absence of a simple formula, we have to find another way. We have to call on our strength and our patience, and give our emotions the space they need to breathe. We need to remember that we are intelligent, thoughtful, creative beings. Even when we may not be able to see what’s around the bend, if we are willing to break the mold, and to think differently, we will be able to do the “next right thing.” We will be ok. Our kids will be better than ok.