I arrived home over a month ago from Yellowstone National Park. Truthfully, I wasted no time returning to school, jobs, and beginning an internship. My head spun as one of my best friends got married. The work and fun have already left me tired with a head coming to grips with a different reality than the one from this summer.
I’ve tried to process the entire experience, but find my present world so tiring that I only sit back and sometimes reminisce. I looked through pictures but felt very little. I’m not sure the pace of school has allowed a proper process of remembrance from the world of Bison, Bears, and terrible drivers. I’ve driven through South Dakota again, saw the glorious peaks of the Tetons on screens, and saw bubbling mud volcanoes in my mind. Nothing really changed or struck me—until tonight.
The posted picture shows mountains Kyle and I first saw driving towards Mammoth to the North entrance into the park. They were covered in snow in May, but were all dried up by the summer season. I so badly wish to see them again not because of their beauty (which captured my initial attention), but to smile and reunite with them. I saw those mountains often and failed to notice them because of their familiarity. But to see those mountains again evokes a strange longing to return to a very specific (and significant) existence in my life.
They were home.
I’m not sure where all of this leads, but wanting to return to a home, even for three short months, means something significant. Sometimes feelings and desires inform us of our understanding of God, self, and others. Whether we realize it or not, God calls us home where he knows we belong, find acceptance, and love. I don’t mean to make God the divine therapist, but the very doctrine of the incarnation shows that he stepped into the human experience to woo us to himself. He literally gave himself to us in the most intimate way possible. So as God created Yellowstone, he had in mind the billions who would see it and feel awe and beauty. He paints the picture, writes the poem, and desperately tries to get the attention of the ones he loves. His creation points to the relationship he desires with his people. Beauty reveals the imagination of God.
The amazement is not even in the beauty though. Instead, it’s from the ability to enter into that imagination intimately with him. What makes reflecting on Yellowstone so wonderful is the ability to recall actual experiences God gave me. I hiked through painted meadows. The people I lived with were my family, and bison were my big, nasty, ugly pets. I also wouldn’t claim bears as inherently evil, but I certainly wouldn’t call them snuggly either. I can still smell sulfur from the “thermal features”, and can hear the majesty of Old Faithful going off. I can feel the pant in my lungs from climbing Electric and I can hear the laughs of “Funday Mondays”. The last one seems strange because I don’t really laugh much on Mondays anymore.
In the remembering, however, I can still feel the anxiety. I can even feel the tears of working through personal depression, and the wiping away of those tears by God’s divine hand. The spectrum of experience involved far more than a summer adventure—it was a personal tale of God’s redemption story. It was my experience of the reconciliation of God. The place, people, and experience all point to the reality of this place where God says we’re redeemed to actually redeeming me.
Redemption cannot be discussed or experienced apart from the context of relationship with God. The broad context discussed in Scripture is the very context our lives enter into when we follow Christ. In those mountains I grew taller, walked further, related better, and felt the embrace of God in the water falls of Canyon. I still miss my community from there because they helped see and encourage parts of me that I never knew existed. They supported me, they pushed me, they laughed with me, and they invested in the fellowship that God designed. I can look back because the experience pushed me forward. When I see the mountains, I see God’s redemption in a way that is both real and personal. I see the Gospel in the Gallatin forest. I see Creation in the Canyon. Within my friendships, I see love. And I remember.
I remember what it felt like to be there. I remember redemption as a part of my life in Christ. Redemption was meant to happen to us. Part of our salvation is God working out his truth of the Gospel in our lives by the Holy Spirit—by giving himself to us. God’s faithfulness and love supersedes present realities and presses us on in a tangible way. I remember the mountains. I remember home. I see the picture, but I know it too—even now. And, in a sense, I remember and see myself in redemption fully realized. I can remember and hope. He has been faithful and he will be forever.
If I was with you this summer, you are missed and remembered, thanks for everything,
LTDA,
Trey