After a bit of a grueling journey abroad, two changes, several layovers (one lasting 4.5 hours), we made it. We landed in Switzerland safe, sound and sleepy. My mother picked us up in her rental car and we began the hour and a half ride to the apartment in the Alps. We were headed to my grandparents apartment, filled with childhood memories from my youngest years. As we curved around the mountain sides careening in and out, I gazed out the window. It hit me. The absolute majestic perfection of God’s handy work, found in the gaze of the smallest flower or in this case the awe striking magnitude of His mountains. The sunlight hit the snow capped tips as the rays streamed through the peaceful, gently moving clouds. The green of the trees and the brown stone made the most complete palette of colors. God’s divine providence swept through my entire being. Everything in the world felt right at that moment. Those rare moments suspended in time, where everything and everyone makes sense in the broader story of your life. This is about me and P.
I guess a bit of history is needed to come to the present, so I will start with a process to the now. I adore singing, the arts and the path I have taken, the accolades I have received, and also very precious moments, like the time a gentleman came up after a concert where I sang Pamina’s aria. It is an extremely challenging piece to do well. It is a piece I had worked on off and on again for years, probably a good fifteen! He said it was the most perfect and beautiful rendition he had ever heard, better than the Met! He said I was meant to sing Mozart, which rang true to the words of one of my dearest mentors and teachers. This was not a newspaper headline or being recognized from a television show as had happened in Paris years earlier, but it meant the world to me. It was a moment where I knew I had conquered the task, and even if only one person in the world recognized it, that was enough to fill my spirit with a sense of joy and accomplishment.
All that being said, it pales in comparison to the joy, excitement and energy I feel when I watch P in his element — the climbing gym. When he makes a hard route he has been working on, it is the joy I felt singing, times twenty. We give our bodies to our children, our blood, sweat and tears. We face our own demons and wrestle with impatience, frustration and anger. We are forced to exercise the fruits of the Spirit. God is not mistaken in saying children are a blessing. Not just for the joy they give us, but for all the hard times too. They help us to become better versions of ourselves. What a gift!
It took me a while to help P find his niche. I knew he had to move — a lot. I tried gymnastics, modern dance, Tae Kwon Do, healthy kids running series, all to no avail. Nothing seemed to stick. I had almost given up hope when it occurred to me that he was constantly climbing trees. I remember a church picnic where a concerned parishioner came up to me and said, “Is it ok for him to be up there?” Busy eating my pasta salad, I turned to see where she was pointing and what her concern might be. Lo and behold, there was P at a daunting height at the top of the tree. I just about choked on a pepper as my stomach filled with butterflies. I asked in my most calm, Academy-Awards-winning voice for him to come down immediately. Perhaps that is when it dawned on me that maybe climbing was his thing. I took him to a climbing gym, signed him up for “First accents”, and that was it. He found his passion.
Growing up I often had the feeling that I did not quite fit in my family in a certain way. When we would go to the Alps in the summer and climb mountains, I felt it was hard. I was tired, and everyone else seemed to relish these physical challenges. I looked forward to tea and cookies. When we came to ski in winters, I always had to muster up the courage. Apparently I came home crying when I received my first star (premiere etoile) from the ski school. What should have been a happy moment of accomplishing the grueling task of beginner skiing, I had wet my snowsuit. I remember my brother leading me into treacherous zones and falling in powdered snow with tears of frustration and fear running down my cheeks. I remember receiving the message (directly or inferred) that I was not strong enough, not fit enough. I liked eating too much, and not moving enough. I would have preferred to watch a good Shirley Temple movie with a cup of hot chocolate, or listen to Dolly Parton and sing along. Why was I here, and why did everyone around me seem to flourish in an environment that felt too hard and no fun?
Over the years my skills improved, and perhaps I strengthened my weaknesses, but those feelings never went away completely. I remember a time even in recent years being at the apartment in the Alps and having brought a keyboard. All of my cousins kept numerous items in “the cave” (cellar). There were skis and boots, snowboards, hiking boots, etc. But when I wanted to leave my keyboard there, it was met by my grandfather with abject rejection. It felt personal. Sporting was good, music was less-than. It fed right into my deep sense of failure in the areas I had been placed.
Many years later, here I was staring at the beauty of this most perfect place, and I felt peace. Total, complete, perfect peace. It wasn’t about me, it never had been. It was about P. How could it be that my dear first born—whose biggest passion in life is climbing—was going to be spending time in one of the best climbing areas in the world? Divine Providence. It is a beautiful moment when you feel so fully absorbed in something other than oneself. The giving up of one's life is so much better. Christ is never mistaken.
There was a period of time when I did find a niche in my “sporty” family. Seems I was a natural swimmer. When I happened to fall into the water at the age of two, my father paused for just a moment. He was just about to jump in the water when he saw me begin to doggy paddle and stay afloat. I guess my baby fat finally came in handy, and swimming seemed to be the one sport in which I was naturally gifted. I worked hard for many years and even got some double A times in the USAA ratings. Butterfly was my thing. I swam summers and winters, day in and day out, several hours a day and meets on weekends.
When I was about thirteen I noticed the girls around me were growing taller and getting stronger. I was 5’2, and it seemed that is where I was topping out. Being the logical person I am, it became clear to me that the odds were stacking against me, and in all honesty, I was burnt out. I quit overnight and did not swim another lap in a pool for many years. I had the thought, recently seeing my P so passionate and devoting so much of his being to climbing, and I wondered if a similar scenario would ensue. However, as I learn about climbing through him and grow in my understanding of rules and terminology, techniques and strategies, I understand that there are advantages to being taller and other advantages to being smaller. Climbing seems to be a sport that has equanimity woven into it’s very fabric.
The other thing that I have seen in this sport is something so unique to the competitive nature of the sports I grew up around—the dog-eat-dog-winning-at-all-costs mentality seems to be nonexistent. The camaraderie and support I see at the gym where P climbs is beautiful to witness. Everyone seems to cheer on, inspire, mentor and comfort each other . It reminds me of a most touching moment in the Dawn Wall film that brings tears to my eyes each time I think about it. Tommy Caldwell and Kevin Jorgenson spent years training together to climb the dawn well. At the top of the wall, very close to the end, Tommy made the next steps and could have easily gone to the top. Instead, he stayed where he was and waited. He said he would not feel any joy without his friend Kevin accomplishing it with him. He said when he got to that point, conquering his personal best, all he felt was sadness seeing his friend left behind. So he sat and he waited. In the end Kevin made it too, and the happy ending was a glorious one. In what I have witnessed, this is the mentality of the climbing world, and it is a beautiful thing.
A few days later (when P dragged his favorite uncle Ianny into town to visit the climbing store to peruse the ropes, clips, backpacks, chalk bags and shoes) a conversation began. The store clerk engaged them and asked if they liked to climb. Turns out the World Cup climbing competition was the next three days in Chamonix, right where we were!! Divine providence is quite something, enough to knock you off your feet in those moments of clarity where God’s long term vision heals every tear.
