The Death March

As this is my first time blogging, I ask that you all bear with me! I don't think I ever felt compelled to publicly write anything until yesterday...a day that will live in infamy, and the day that I decided on a title for said blog. I had never understood how crazy my dad was until then. He invited me to go with him and my three brothers on a hike. We got to the base of the mountain at 6 in the am. He then asked if I was ready to complete my first, and as I would soon find out, my last death march. Death march? You ask. Yes. And a death march it was, in every sense of the word. It started out bad. Really really bad. And it just got...well let's say it was a good time. After busting brush for an hour and a half, I sat down on a rock and cried. I was determined to make it though. We made it to Thurston's Peak three falls and a bloody nose later. I tell you this, dear reader, because I received a deeper understanding of my own Father in Heaven. I began to realize how much He cares for His children. Sometimes He has to push us along, applying constant pressure in order for us to make ourselves grow and move forward. Other times He pulls us up our own mountain in life. He wants what is best for us and knows that making us uncomfortable will force us to grow into our potential selves. Speaking of uncomfortable, I still am. This sunburn is heinous. Although I will never willingly do another Death March as long as I live, I am grateful for the lessons I learned while struggling to the top of that ridiculous peak.