Chris Tucker
I recently, with a boyhood friend (whose friendship has only aged as fine wine over our many shared years), took a trip to Grand Teton. In our spontaneity, we made do with the equipment we had and stretched our grit in place of any gaps. Meandering north, we discussed politics, religion, road snacks, and country music (specifically the likes of Colter Wall, Bella White and Noeline Hoffman, given our general proximity to Alberta and Saskatchewan), and often reported our mutually cheerful surprise that this endeavor actually made it out of our iMessages.
We scouted and claimed a campsite in Bridger-Teton National Forest, and at the end of a long day of prep and travel, immediately slept. Deciding to get up zealously early in the morning to watch the sunrise on the mountain’s curves, cliffs and jagged edges, its snow packed peaks and and exposed and rocky southern slopes, we drove towards a pre-determined lookout, and readied two jet boil bags of freeze dried biscuits and gravy to bring any available blood back to our hands and laps from the numbing 19 degree(f) morning. We sat together watching as the coats of pink, purple, and orange light from the well rested Sun revealed their glow from the several pronounced peaks down to the snow powdered treeline, and humble lakes and rivers below.
We sat eating, peering through our dissipating breath, with the promise of warmer hours casted in the colors on the cliffs before us. We couldn’t focus on anything else if we wanted to. It was cold. Freezing cold. I fought back with a melly cinch to my eyebrows and the bottom of my mustache, so you might only see my red mustache and nose, my freezing watered eyes, and a glimpse of my pale pink cheeks poking through by means of a skinny man’s bone structure.
We didn’t say much that morning. It seemed to be a combination of shivering to the marrow of our bones as we ate a hot meal and listened for bears and bugling elk while sleeping with our eyes open. I don’t think these aspects of the morning had no influence on our silence, but I confidently believe that we were coerced into being still because we were watching as this painting that felt complete at any given moment somehow also sit in a state of being endlessly created by an artist refusing to ever drop the brush.
We were not limited by any picture frames, or a still moment remembered and portrayed on canvas by talented men. You’re allowed (and often encouraged) to talk over and discuss paintings in a gallery. The Mona Lisa, The Sistine Chapel, and ancient cave paintings scattered throughout the planet have been the same since their conception, and barring Jesus’ return, will likely always be there tomorrow. Have you seen stone blush, or heard a rocky range speak in tongues of distant winds? I say with certainty that this demands a closed mouth, as what you’ll see and hear will not return the following day, and furthermore, I definitely can’t paint it for you.
On our drive to what I will permanently call “our” lookout (It now belongs to us in my mind. Sorry if that’s a little too close to Manifest Destiny for anybody reading this) we watched what had to have been somewhere in the ballpark of 150 migrating elk taking their breakfast with us (I suppose it was really us with them), though the spiritual fisherman in me wants to tell you a legend of over 300. I have never seen a more compact concentration of any animal anywhere else in my life. Perhaps the Bison in Tall Grass Prairie, or the fish of an old hatchery in Joplin, Missouri that my grandparents used to take me and my older brother to in our youth, or maybe (and a tad morbidly), every feed lot I have ever stumbled upon while driving through western Kansas, especially the approaching acres of Dodge City, are the only memories I can conjure that might challenge the scale of my testimony about this particular morning.
As the sunrise continued, the rest of the valley also began waking up. Before we got our own bearings, several cars had already pulled into our lookout, taken a few photographs, sharing the experience of shivering to the bone, and retreated back to their heaters and seatwarmers, to the road that split the sea of those early grazing elk where a traffic circle sorted drivers for Jackson and a hot cup of coffee (where we ultimately ended up, ourselves), or to the park’s entrance for an early start on the day. We finally acknowledged the bone chilling air, and as I wrapped up my breakfast, I saw the rare early bird many of us have always heard about, and was encouraged to mimic. It flew close enough to hear flapping wings and morning song, and yet I heard nothing at all. This is the moment I learned that our silence was never an offering we chose to give, but was a demand we fulfilled in the magnificence of what we were witnessing.
The birds, the creek below our lookout and the miles and miles of sage that surrounded us with the grazing elk all collectively met this demand. The whole valley submitted in still, quiet reverence for the glowing rocky hills. The colorful expression of emotion and breezy voice of the mountain insisted such an attention that even the beauty in its foreground minimized itself to point to the ultimate subject of our view and reason for our wake.
The moment that this dancing range before me had my full attention, captivating me in awe, the range fell silent, forgetting itself (as my mind personified it) as a vapor and pointed upward to Him who is ultimate. It finally made sense to me what God was revealing. His breath is the brush strokes of light on the mountains. He designed and knows each bristle on every feather of the early bird. My attention diverted to Him who pulls the sage through the dirt that generations of Elk have eaten on this land, and in tandem with all of this, chooses to consider me. These mountains are the foreground of God’s glory, of His majesty, and power, and kindness.
I am reminded of how small I am, and consequentially how weak I am (“For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin.” Hebrews 4:15).
I am brought to face my sin, and remember my need for a savior (“For one will scarcely die for a righteous person—though perhaps for a good person one would dare even to die— but God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us. Since, therefore, we have now been justified by his blood, much more shall we be saved by him from the wrath of God.” Romans 5:7-9).
I see my idols clearly and how they can keep no offered promises (“For all the gods of the peoples are worthless idols, but the LORD made the heavens.” Psalm 96:5).
I conclude by this sunrise that the fullness of joy is in the presence of God, alone (Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” Revelation 21:1-4).
Just some thoughts from a lookout.
Copper Thoughts 