by Annie Wald
“No, I’m not—you’re pinching me.”
“It’s all these burrs.”
“Well, where did they come from? We were fine until you started to complain about how fast I was going.”
“No, it’s all your fault.” But as she spoke these words, three burrs blew onto Peter’s pant leg.
“You started it,” Peter said, not caring that two more burrs stuck onto Celeste.
“What does it matter? The path is so thick with burr bushes, we can’t go any farther.”
“We can keep on.”
“Just because you are thick-skinned—”
“What do you mean?” Peter said. “Just because I don’t cry at the smallest bit of pain?”
Celeste was already feeling sorry for herself. When he said this, she stopped. She couldn’t sit because her backside was covered with burrs, so she just stood, arms and legs apart, and tried to think what she should do. “Look at us —” she said. “We’re both covered with burrs. We have to find a way to get them off. Will any of our gifts help us?”
“We weren’t given tweezers,” Peter said.
Celeste tried to pull the burrs off herself, but they clung as if they were fastened on with glue.
Peter started to walk on, but Celeste refused. “I’m not going any farther until we find how to get these off. They are not just pinching me, they are digging in like they have teeth.” She pulled up her sleeve and showed Peter the marks the burrs had made.
He felt a twinge of sympathy. “Let’s look in the guidebook. Maybe it talks about a remedy for burrs.”
They searched the guidebook and came to the passage Lady Sophia had read to them about speaking to encourage other. Then they read, “Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice. Be kind and compassionate to one another.”
Peter closed the book. He thought about how free he had felt when his chains of debt had been cut with the knife of grace.
Finally Celeste said, “I’m sorry, Peter. I shouldn’t have been cross.” As soon as she said this, a burr fell off him.
“Oh, I was wrong too,” he said, and a burr fell off her.
“Look, that’s how to do it,” Celeste said. “Every time I speak a kind word, a burr comes off you. You are such a good walker, strong and steadfast.” Another fistful dropped from Peter.
“And you remind me to enjoy the world, not just work,” Peter said, and a handful detached from Celeste. “It’s amazing. The power of words—I had no idea.”
They laughed and turned it into a game to see who could say the nicest words and get the burrs off the other person first. Finally they managed to free themselves.
“Whew. That was unpleasant. Let’s not do that again,” Celeste said.
“And it’s not very efficient either. We wasted an entire morning.”
“But we learned how to avoid getting burrs.”
Later that day, they came upon a couple covered with burrs. “So you got trapped in the burr patch too,” Peter said.
“Yes, sticky business,” the husband said.
“But you still are covered with burrs,” Celeste said. “How did you get out?”
“It wasn’t easy,” the wife said. “We finally just closed our eyes and pushed ahead.”
“Didn’t it hurt?” Celeste said.
“Of course,” the husband said. He turned to Peter and whispered, “Women are so soft sometimes. My wife complained at first, but I told her she just had to buck up and get through it.”
Peter noticed streaks of blood coming through the woman’s sleeves. “But she’s bleeding.”
“Just a flesh wound. On this journey, you have to take a little bit of pain. Can’t worry about every little burr that sticks to you.”
“But they’re still on you. Your backs are covered with them. What happens when you lie down?”
“We sleep on our stomachs.”
“Isn’t that rather uncomfortable?”
“Better than feeling the sharp pain when we lie on our backs.”
“You know,” Peter said, “if you spoke kind words to each other, they would fall off. That’s how we removed our burrs.”
The man shook his head. “I don’t go in for all that coddling stuff. And she has to learn to get tough sooner or later.”
“What am I supposed to do?” The woman shrugged. “I don’t think he would even notice if I managed to take all the burrs off him.”
As Celeste watched the couple walk away, she felt sorry that they would rather suffer than learn to speak kindly to each other.
Around the Mountains of Maturity
INTO THE SAND DUNES OF FOOLISHNESS
In my dream I saw that the path for Peter and Celeste became rockier and started to rise. Soon they came to the Mountains of Maturity that ranged all the way to the King’s City. Celeste felt her heart sag when she saw the first one, Virtue Peak, soaring in front of them. She was convinced she could never attempt such a rugged climb. Even Peter, who always loved a challenge, was daunted by the steep slope. In places it looked like the trail took them up an almost sheer rock face. That would be hard enough for him alone, but he’d also have to help Celeste and he wasn’t sure he had the strength. “There has to be another way around this mountain, don’t you think?” Peter asked.
“We could try this way.” Celeste pointed to the side where a comfortable sandy path led away from the mountain. She remembered her postcard of a couple surfing. “There is no sign saying it is forbidden, and it looks like it might lead to a beach. I don’t think it would hurt to take a little rest and enjoy the sun and the sea. It would be like our time under the moon of honey.”
Peter would have never agreed to rest before. But he was discovering that what he had observed before he met Celeste was true: it was much more difficult to make the journey with a partner than alone, and he was often very tired at the end of the day. “I always wanted to go to the beach, but the leaders in Upright Village didn’t think it was a wise place to visit.”
“How can there be anything wrong with going to the beach? A little fun never hurt anyone. We’ll just stay for a short while and when we’re ready, we’ll leave.”
“They also warned about the roaring lion who roamed through the King’s country looking for travelers to devour. It favors the lower, sandy regions where travelers haven’t learned to be on guard.”
“A lion.” Celeste shook her head. “Have you ever seen one? I’m sure that was just a folktale they used to scare people from leaving the village. And even if this lion does exist, I’m sure the King would never allow it to run free in His country.”
Peter didn’t want to argue, especially since the sandy path looked so inviting. “You’re probably right, and we could use a little break from our journey.”
As soon as the path turned away from Virtue Peak, it opened onto a broad area of sand dotted with tufts of grass. At first the sand was firm. Sometimes Peter and Celeste heard the distant rumble of waves, though they couldn’t see the ocean. They passed by several trails that split off from the beach path: the Course of Testing, the Course of Discipline, and the Course of Suffering. Each looked too rocky or climbed right back up toward the Mountains of Maturity. So Peter and Celeste continued their pleasant meander through the soft warm sand. Peter wondered why the leaders of Upright Village had been so adamant about avoiding the beach.
Soon the path gently descended into a section of low mounds of sand. The sun was hot, and they wished for the shady trees they had walked under in the Low Country. Even the forested slopes on the mountains behind them looked appealing. But Peter and Celeste pushed on, sweaty and sticky, drawn by the sound of the ocean that seemed always just around the next dune. They thought of how refreshing it would be to plunge into the cool water and swim in the waves. Finally they came to the beach. A crystal blue sky matched the vast ocean that sparkled in the sun. Seabirds swooped down and scavenged bits of food and dead fish that had washed up.
Other
travelers had come to the beach too, walking down the long stretch of soft sand or playing in the surf. Some travelers had assembled shelters with scraps of driftwood to shade themselves from the relentless sun. Peter asked one traveler if the flimsy shack could withstand a storm. The traveler assured Peter he had carefully followed the instructions he had been given by a man wearing a sheepskin of humility.
Peter frowned. He remembered the Servant’s warning about guides disguised as harmless sheep but who really were vicious wolves.
“Well, this shelter is better than getting grilled to a crisp,” the traveler said. “You’ll soon be building your own.”
“Come on, Peter.” Celeste tugged at his hand. “Let’s go swimming.”
They left their packs on the beach and dashed into the waves. But they didn’t swim for long. The water was so salty, it stung their eyes and pinched their skin. They asked another traveler if there was fresh water near the beach so they could wash off.
The traveler said there wasn’t, but that was for the best. “It’s fine to come and take a rest at the beach. After all, the Sabbath is one of the King’s rules. But I’m only going to stay for a short while and then continue my journey to the King’s City.”
Peter was ready to go back to the path, but Celeste convinced him to stay a few more hours. While they rested on the beach, a powerful wind came driving down the coast and stirred up a sandstorm. They could do nothing but close their eyes and wait. The sand stung their faces and arms and legs, and whipped into their hair. When the wind finally died and they opened their eyes again, the mounds of sand behind them had turned into a field of tall, sharp dunes. There was no sign of a trail to lead them out.
“How are we going to find our way back to the path?” Peter asked.
“Doesn’t matter.” Celeste shook her head, still determined to live her postcard of the couple riding the waves. “We’re at the beach, and that’s all that matters.”
“Except we have no fresh water.”
“Don’t be so negative. You just need to look at this as an adventure.”
It sounded like wishful thinking to Peter, but he was too tired to say anything. He hoped the wind would shift the dunes during the night and make a clear path for them.
Then Celeste thought of her favorite postcard of the couple gazing at each other. “I know, let’s imagine we’re under the moon of honey again.”
They drank quickly from the chalice and soon fell asleep under the stars, with the sound of the ocean lapping with its endless thirst. When they woke up the next morning, nothing had changed. The wind was still hot, they were still sticky, the dunes were still tall and pathless, and the sand had turned even softer. They wandered around trying to find a way out, but with each step they sunk deep in the sand.
Peter was worried, but Celeste said that sooner or later the wind would blow the dunes away. She decided that if they had to stay in the dunes, she was going to have fun. She climbed one of the dunes as high as she could, then slid down with a whoop. “If you can’t beat them, join them,” Celeste called to Peter. She spent the entire day sliding down one dune after another, never stopping to see how Peter was getting on. If she had, she would have seen he was quite miserable. He was pale-skinned, and without any shade he was getting a punishing sunburn.
The next day Celeste continued playing on the dunes while Peter, now painfully pink, managed to scrounge enough driftwood to build a little shack to shelter them. That night they ate the last biscuits from their packs. “I’m worried about finding more supplies,” Peter said.
Celeste drank the last of the juice they had brought. “I’m sure something will work out.”
As the days went on, their muscles grew weaker in the soft sand until Celeste could no longer climb the dunes. Occasionally they found puddles of brackish water that collected in low spots between the dunes. Although the water was not very refreshing, at least it took the edge off their growing thirst. They also were becoming thin, for their diet of stewed beach grass was not very nourishing. It was impossible to kick pebbles, and Celeste’s throat was too dry for her to sing. Then one day storm clouds massed on the horizon. Some travelers laid out makeshift basins to catch the fresh rainwater the storm would bring. But Peter and Celeste had stayed up late yet again and were sound asleep. By the time they awoke, the brief shower had passed.
“I am so thirsty,” Celeste said.
“You’re the one who wanted to go to the beach.”
“But it wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“I liked it better when you sang.”
“There’s nothing to sing about.”
“Then I’d appreciate it if you would keep your comments to yourself.”
Celeste turned her back on Peter. “I can complain if I want.”
They went on bickering, thinking only about their own comfort. Sand got under their Cords of Commitment and began to rub at the threads.
There was no gathering hut at the beach, but other travelers sometimes stopped by Peter and Celeste’s shack and told them dreadful stories about travelers who had set up camp in the dunes and had slowly starved. Others had been carried off by the roaring lion and never seen again. Then a traveler warned them that hurricane season was coming; their shack could not withstand the fierce winds. But Peter was proud of the shack he had built and thought it could survive any storm until one day it started to rain, and the wind began to howl. All day, the rain poured down and streams rushed through the sand. The wind beat relentlessly against their shack. Then with one strong gust, it collapsed.
After the storm died, Peter and Celeste huddled together and looked at what was left of their shelter. Peter stood up, as if waking from a dream. “We can’t stay here; we have to get back on the path to the King’s City. There’s no decent water, no shelter, no solid food. I want to walk again on a firm path of righteousness and peace—and not give up until we get to the King’s City. No matter how painful or difficult, we need to press on.”
Celeste knew Peter was right. The emptiness in her life had begun to remind her of Slouching City. Together they called to the King for help, and the Breath of the King strengthened them as they started tramping through the maze of dunes. The dunes had become so tall, they could see nothing but walls of sand. With their weakened legs, they struggled to make their way. In the distance they could hear the roaring lion growling for prey. When they heard a traveler give an agonizing scream, Celeste became terrified the lion would find them. “We’re never going to get out of here. It’s too hard.”
Peter decided to encourage her with songs from the guidebook, and he sang to the King:
Turn Your ear to listen to me;
rescue me quickly.
Be my rock of protection,
a fortress where I will be safe.
You are my rock and my fortress.
For the honor of Your name, lead me out of this danger.
Then he sang:
Oh, that my steps might be steady,
keeping to the course You set;
Then I’d never have any regrets
in comparing my life with Your counsel.
Peter took Celeste by the hand and pulled her along. Their progress was slow, and a few times they slid back to the bottom of a dune.
“It’s hopeless, Peter. We’ll never get out of here.”
Peter opened up the guidebook again and sang another song to the King:
My sad life’s dilapidated, a falling-down barn;
build me up again by your Word.
Barricade the road that goes Nowhere;
grace me with your clear revelation.
I choose the true road to Somewhere,
I post your road signs at every curve and corner.
They started up again, singing the song as they went until together they reached firmer ground. Soon they were back on the King’s path, with the Mountains of Maturity looming, for their detour along the beach had taken them far south of Virtue Peak. They headed north, and after
a few days they came to a boulder-filled path. A guide named Persistence stood by a sign that said, “To Mount Self-Control, Elevation: 16,583 feet.”
“Can you tell us the best way to get around this mountain?” Peter asked.
“I always encourage travelers to go up every peak they come to.”
“The first one we saw looked much too steep,” Peter said, “and this one looks even harder.”