The Grand Canyon

In October, my family planned one last family trip before my mission and Amanda's...uh..."cake decorating class" took us in separate directions.

(EDIT: "Cake decorating class"=wedding plans. It's official now, so I don't have to use the code words anymore.)

It was an amazing trip. The aspens were shimmering gold and the drives through the forest were almost more fun than what we did at each destination. There were also awesome black squirrels with huge, ostrich-feather tails, which of course made me happy.

For someone like me with a crippling fear of falling, it was kind of an intimidating trip. I've seen the Grand Canyon in pictures and movies before, but until you're standing along the rim with only a tiny guardrail between you and a five-million-foot drop, you really can't appreciate just how enormous that place is. Even in our campsite, on a relatively flat surface surrounded by trees and other campers, my knees would shake with fear of falling. If I looked up through the trees, all I could see was blue sky stretching forever, reminding me that there was a sheer drop only a few yards away. I had this horrible feeling that if I so much as tripped in my tent the canyon's gravitational pull would drag me screaming out of my tent and along the forest floor until I tumbled down, down, down into its gaping, rocky maw.

Really, it was intimidating.

Sadly Amanda wasn't there, but I really feel like I bonded with Sarah, Ashley and my parents that weekend. If nothing else, I got to practice my mothering skills as I freaked out whenever Sarah or Ashley got too close to the edge.

But what I really wanted to share when I started writing this post was something that happened our last night there between me and my dad. It really is a small occurrence, and he probably doesn't even remember, but it's something that made me grow spiritually, funnily enough.

We stayed at the canyon for two nights. The first night, my sisters and I were beyond freezing. After living in Gilbert for seven years, you tend to assume that when people say "it'll be cold there," what they really mean is, "you might need a light jacket." During the day, that was true, but at night it felt like the dead of winter out there. And I don't mean Arizona dead of winter. I mean Utah dead of winter. It was horrible. Thankfully, my dad is very outdoors-savvy, and he forced us all to pack winter coats and gloves. If it wasn't for that, I probably would have frozen to death.

But even with Dad's advice, my sisters and I were incapable of falling asleep that first night. I worked so hard to wrap my sleeping bag sufficiently around me and keep my head warm and not turn over despite a cramped leg for fear I'd let the cold in, but I couldn't fall asleep. There was this constant chill like an icy finger going up and down my spine no matter what I did to try and keep it at bay. Finally I found myself just praying that the sun would rise soon so I could thaw out like the cold-blooded reptile I apparently am.

Then Sarah, who was also still awake and probably thinking along the same lines as me, asked Ashley, who was also still awake, what time it was. When she said, "11:00" and I realized I had eight hours to go, I almost burst into tears.

So the second night when the sun was down and we were too tired to stay around the amazingly warm fire anymore, I reluctantly slipped into my sleeping bag to start the whole process over again. My Dad had fixed my faulty sleeping bag for me, so I was more confident this time that I would get more sleep, but I still took every preemptive measure I could think of to stay warm--tying my jacket around my head like an oversized bonnet, wearing only light pajamas so my body heat would warm my mummy bag faster, draping my winter coat over my sleeping bag for extra warmth.

It worked for a while. I was able to doze as my dad and Ashley watched "The Scarlet Pimpernel" on the laptop in the tent. But not twenty minutes later I felt that icy finger again.

It was completely frustrating. I really felt like crying, but I was too tired. I was so ornery and mad at myself for not being smart enough to figure out how to be warm. I was almost 21! I'd been smart enough to get through two years of university with a fairly solid GPA! How could I not figure out how to just get warm?! I was defeated and miserable, and what made it worse was seeing Ashley and Dad just hanging out by the laptop, not even huddled together or wrapped up in blankets. They were smarter than me. They were having a wonderful time. They would get a good night's sleep while I would go through another night of torment.

I managed to keep quiet and not let Ashley and Dad know about my issues, but by the time their movie was over I decided to eat some humble pie, reveal my stupidity, and ask Dad for help in getting warm.

I was afraid that he would be too tired to stick around. I was afraid that he would just laugh at me and tell me to deal with it because there was nothing he could do. I was afraid that he would think I was just sleep-talking and ignore me. Heck, if I was in his shoes, I might have done all those things.

But I'm not as great as my dad.

With gentle understanding, he immediately crossed the tent to help me. I just huddled there pitifully as he wrapped my jacket more securely around my head and readjusted my coat/blanket. Then he felt my back where I said I kept getting a chill, and he pointed out that I'd been keeping my back against the frigid tent wall. For some reason, I'd thought being snuggled against the tent would keep me warmer, but sure enough, when he pulled my sleeping mat away from the wall, that icy finger finally disappeared.

With that, Dad said goodnight and left. I was so happy I almost did cry, but with nothing to keep me from doing so I fell straight to sleep.

Like I said, it was a small thing that happened on that trip, and it seems silly that it would have that big of an impact on me, but I was just so happy to be warm and to get a good night's sleep and especially to receive that reassurance that Dad loves me.

There are times when something my dad does helps me to get a better idea of how our Heavenly Father must be. This was one of those times. I'd been too stubborn and I'd felt too stupid to ask him for help. I'd thought that there was nothing more he could do to keep the cold away. I'd suspected that he might not care enough. But as soon as I decided to be humble and ask him for help, he didn't hesitate to rush to my aid--his beloved child's aid. He'd seen what I couldn't see and he'd been more than willing to show me as soon as I asked him for help.

I can completely understand why family is so important to our Heavenly Father. Our mortal families are symbolic of the eternal family dynamics we have in immortality. I hope that everyone at some point in their lives looks at their father and sees the light and love of our Heavenly Father shining through his thoughtless actions as I saw in my Dad at the Grand Canyon.