Rocks

            Most might think a group of twenty teenagers and their chaperones could figure out how to dig a proper hole. The actual concept of digging is not lost on us, but our attempts of making a hole in the sand deep enough for a post to stand is fruitless. The hole keeps closing back in on itself, frustrating everyone. We try scooping it out with our hands and we try using the shovels to try and stop the sand from falling in, but nothing seems to be the right solution. At the end of two hours, we still do not have a hole.

            It is our second day in Oljato, Utah. The high school aged youth and our sponsors traveled a day and a half from St. Joseph, Missouri to get to this tiny town on a Navajo reservation. Oljato is about as far as you can get from the previous year’s summer mission trip to Copperhill, Tennessee, where the air is thick and lush, green trees overpower the horizon line. Utah does not have an ounce of humidity and the only thing more abundant than the rock formations is the sand. It is not the type of sand you want to sink your toes into on the beach, but instead it is an orange, gritty sand that latches onto you and everything you own for months after you leave.

            It took us two days to travel to the reservation, the better part of which was spent in Colorado. This is my first mission trip experiencing both extremes of altitude, because the second day of driving our sponsors realized we had time to spare and decided to drive up Mt. Evans, known for the highest paved road in North America. The drive up was terrifying. Our twelve passenger vans barely fit on the snaking path, and even the bravest among us didn’t look over the edge for too long. Jenny, a freshman, made it a point to keep her gaze firmly on the opposite side the entire time. “Look at the pretty rocks,” she said. “I think I’ll just keep looking at these lovely rocks.” Honestly, we couldn’t blame her.

            By the time we made it to a lookout point, all of us were so glad to be standing still that we almost missed the view. For miles stretching in front of us, there were trees filling every nook and cranny of the mountainside. If you looked a little to the right, you would see more peaks protruding from the skyline, but there was a consensus that we wouldn’t be traveling any further up the road. Miranda, Jessie, and I attempted to take a picture with the scenery, but our cameras couldn’t do it justice. It was as if we were trying to capture the elegance of the moon with a dinky smartphone camera.

            After a group of us played a round of hacky sack on the side of a mountain, we piled back in the vans and headed downward. Before we left completely, though, we made a pit stop in the Mt. Evans souvenir shop. One of our younger guys bought a furry hat with antlers on it, which promptly initiated the nickname of The Moose Hat Guy for the remainder of the trip. I myself wasn’t going to get anything until I saw a rough cut of amethyst that could fit in the palm of my hand. It looked incredibly enticing as it glittered with several hues of purple, sparkling against the ring of gray rock that it was set in. After everyone had spent money on things they probably didn’t need, we loaded up and headed to our next destination: Oljato.

            We arrived that night just as the sun was setting, although if you ask anyone in our group, we arrived at bedtime. We pulled up to the local church we are serving, which is also where we are sleeping. Before we could roll out our sleeping bags, the leader of the church, Sarah, wanted to talk with us in the sanctuary. We followed her into the small room with windows that lined the side walls. Sarah stood at the lectern and told us about what our mission would be this week.

            We will have two distinct projects while we are here. Half of us will be building a fence around the local church to keep cows from getting too close to the church, and the other half will be hosting a vacation bible school for the kids around town. All thirty of us in our group will be sleeping and eating in the church, which consisted of two rooms, a kitchen, and one bathroom. The girls would sleep on benches or the floor in the sanctuary, and the guys would be in the other room.

            Yesterday, Oljato experienced a sandstorm. I was one of the lucky ones and stayed inside that day, working with the young kids at VBS. Looking outside, I almost felt like I was watching a snowstorm back home in Missouri. The sand was swirling and flying every which direction, making visibility difficult. Although there was not the biting cold, having sand being blown into your eyes is not much better than snow. When the high school kids came in for lunch, they walked very slowly, as if they were still trying to beat the fury of the wind. As a small compensation, our youth leader let anyone who was on fence duty have first dibs on the shower. Today has clear skies and calm winds, a day we figured would be perfect to dig holes and put up posts.

            I am once again in the group that stays inside to help with VBS. We are teaching the kids about the creation story this week, and today is the land and sky. It seems most appropriate to me, given our surroundings. All there is out here is the sand, rock formations, and the sky. In the mountains, your attention is being pulled in multiple directions and you’re trying not to think about the sweat pouring off of you or the mosquitoes nipping at your ankles. But in Oljato, there aren’t any distractions. There is still plenty to catch your attention, but with all of the landscape being in the same color palette, it becomes one cohesive structure. Everything draws your eyes upward to the top of the mesas and upward still to the sky, which at night is dotted with brilliant stars, brightly contrasted against the rippling navy blue. Land and sky in its simplest, most majestic form.

            During our meetings where we planned this trip, we decided that every evening after we worked, we would go on mini-field trips around and outside of Oljato. One day we will go to Monument Valley and drive around in golf carts with tour guides, another day we will go to Four Corners to say we have been in two, well four, places at once. Today is the day we climb up a mesa. Two men from town offer to take us up the mesa, which is about a ten minute walk from the church. Everyone except Jessica, our youth pastor, who is five months pregnant, and Tyler, a junior, decide to make the trek. We make sure to fill our water bottles before we head out, being mindful that although we do not sweat as much because of the very little humidity, we have to keep hydrated in this heat.

            My first mistake was staying in jeans. My second mistake was drinking half of my water before even reaching the base of the mesa. Now I am looking up and wondering if I have enough to get me to the top. Water is not my only concern, though. In the past year or so, I have seen multiple doctors to try and figure out why I am in pain most of the time. It started in my wrist and made its way to my ankles, knees, hips, and even my elbows. Sometimes if I make a sudden move, one or more of these joints will violently pop, immobilizing me for a few seconds. The concluding diagnosis is that I have a mild case of Juvenile Arthritis, or JA. I take medication for it, which is basically a high dose of Ibuprofen. The prospect of climbing all the way to the top of a mesa seems daunting. Jessica, knowing I have joint issues, has enlisted another sponsor with us, Robin, to make sure I do not overexert myself.

            We begin to make our way up the mesa, and so far I keep up with everyone pretty well. There are certain parts where there is loose rock and other parts where there is no purchase for our hands to hang on to. Up ahead there is a steep slant with enough flat area at the top for one or two people to stand. Larissa, a younger sponsor, gets there first and crouches at the top to help pull people up to the next stretch of the climb. I look up and see that we still have a long way to go, and think about the burning ache in my left ankle and my water bottle, which now only has a few drinks left. Robin notices my hesitation and asks if I need a moment to rest up before continuing. I blink a few times before making up my mind. “No,” I say. “I think I’ll make my way back to the church.” Robin tells me she understands and that she is proud of me for knowing my limits, but as I start my way back to the ground, I cannot help but feel like a loser. I am the only one from the group who turns around, defeated by my own body and what amounts to a large rock. As I sit and half slide down a rock near the bottom, I hear a ripping sound and feel that I have a brand new hole in the back pocket of my jeans.

            I reach the ground and make the trek back to the church. I bring my water bottle up to my lips and tilt my head back, only to discover I had sipped my last drop some time ago. Still walking, I slowly put the cap back on a bottle full of nothing but disappointment. I look around me and start to panic. The guide that had helped me down the mesa had returned to the rest of the group, so I am on my own, but I can’t remember which path to turn on that takes me to the church and fresh water. I stop and put my hand to my brow so I can see past the glare of the sun, but my confusion only deepens. There are two buildings in the distance, but I cannot tell which one is my destination. Looking to the ground, I suddenly feel exhausted and the sand seems to be inviting me to lay down and take a break. My hand drops to my side and I go to lean down, but before I do I notice a smooth stone next to my foot. I pick it up and dust it off.

            It isn’t a particularly a pretty rock. It’s a dull orange and very porous, so no amount of scrubbing will get it clean. I pocket the rock, deciding to keep it as another souvenir. One from the highs and one from the lows. I glance back toward the buildings in the distance and find the confidence in myself to know where I’m heading.

            The rest of the week passes without another sandstorm, although most of us still wake up with a new dusting of sand on top of our sleeping bags. Our last night in Oljato is here, and none of us want to leave. The kids in VBS have grown attached to us and stay long after planned to play and draw with us. The women who live nearby have shown us how to make wonderful fry bread and demonstrated how they make their jewelry with juniper beads. To celebrate our last night, a lot of us are asking to sleep outside for the night. The temperatures have been fair, and the skies are clear, making a perfect night to stargaze. Kevin, Jessica’s husband, decides to take those who want to go to a mesa to sleep on. I worry I will not be able to get up yet another one, but this time I am determined.

            It takes us only five minutes to find this mesa, which is much smaller than the previous one. The base gently slopes up to the plateau, making it easy for everyone to climb. We take it slowly, though, since it is already after dark and only have our flashlights and the light of the moon to see with. We spread our sleeping bags out, the girls in one cluster, the boys in another. Lying down looking up at the stars is something I immediately know I will never forget. We all talk quietly for another half an hour, reminiscing about the past week. We laugh as we remember how difficult it was that day we tried to dig a hole, and how silly we felt when the townspeople came over and told us what we were doing wrong. “Just add water,” they said. “The sand will stick together and it will not fall back in.”