Earlier this month my daughter was in France for the second time. Mind you when I was her age the reach of my travel experience was a church camp in Canada. We went in my father's car. But the world has gotten smaller, or maybe our moxie has expanded. 

 

Ten years ago I was in Paris with five of my kids, which stretched my ambitions a few sizes. We walked from our hostel to the corner cafe for crepes and cheese, and splurged for those dinners whose prices are disproportional to their size. 

 

It went without saying that we would climb the stairs to the Eiffel Tower, and they took turns walking behind me so they could give me a helpful push. We made it, and took the obligatory photos. There is no way I would be able to achieve it these days. Three flights do me in. But there we were, and the view was incredible. 

 

In her book Kitchen Table Wisdom Rachel Naomi Remen tells the story of her mother's wish to climb the Statue of Liberty. While she had lived in New York for most of her life, and even sailed past the Statue of Liberty when she was a Russian immigrant at the age of five, her mother had never been to the top. Why she waited until her eightieth birthday is a conundrum. 

 

It took six hours and hundreds of pauses to rest, but when they were but a few steps from the top her mother spoke. 

 

"Why couldn't we have done these first?"

 

A worthy question, I suppose. Why can't the perspective and vision that seems to elude us for the first half of life show up earlier in the show? Wouldn't that save us all a heap of trouble? 

 

It seems that at least some lessons only come through experience, and a heavy dose of struggle. While that might seem like poor planning for the One whose goal is to lift us up, I recall a day trip in Albuquerque. John drove us to the top of the Sandia mountain, and I was in back tending small children. We passed a bike rider near the bottom, and I was astonished to think he could ascend such a steep road. After John parked at the top and I handed out sandwiches to the kids as they ran on the grass, we enjoyed the scenery. It was nice. But an hour or so later the bike rider churned up the last few yards and flung himself on the ground. He splashed the last of his water bottle over his head and let out a yelp. When he got up to take in the view his sweaty face broke into a smile that somehow exceeded the joy I felt at having reached the pinnacle. 

 

Maybe the real reason for the long ascent has nothing to do with making things easier.