Category: Christian faith

Rick has died

My friend, Rick Allen, has died. A few days ago he was caught in an avalanche on K2, the world’s second highest peak and hardest to climb, and swept to his death.

Rick was 68 years old. He’d climbed for over 40 years, and was recognised as one of the world’s top mountaineers. K2, located on the border of China and Pakistan, is 8,611 metres (28,251 ft) high, only 238 metres less than Mount Everest but considered far more deadly. One climber dies on K2 for every four who reach the summit. Rick was attempting a new route up the south east face, raising money for Partners UK, a humanitarian charity which provides emergency relief during crisis events.

Now Rick has died, and been buried near the foot of K2. Being laid to rest among the world’s highest mountains is exactly what Rick would want.

He was my friend during my ten years as a minister in Aberdeen. During that time Rick came to faith in Christ, was baptised, became one of our church members, and married his wife Alison (who later worked with me in the church office). After their wedding service, Rick and Alison exited beneath an arch of ice axes held aloft by climbing buddies. (Alison, sadly, died some years later.)

Rick was my best encourager when I ventured into the Scottish mountains. I told him a nervous church member had said I was certain to die if I continued to climb alone. But Rick told me ‘Of course there are dangers, but there’s no reason you can’t climb on your own if you master a compass and map, have the right equipment, and use common sense.’ I accepted his wisdom. It would have been hard to argue since he was a renowned Himalayan mountaineer, and I was an utter novice.

Rick urged me to buy an ice axe, essential for digging into snow to haul yourself up and, even more importantly, he taught me how to lean my weight on the axe to brake a slide downhill. I kept that axe for years, even after we’d moved to the Thames Valley in the south of England where there’s almost no snow and definitely no mountains.

Rick taught me much more than how to use an ice axe. I’ve been reflecting on some of these things since I heard of his death.

A good life is active, not passive    Rick wasn’t for letting life happen to him. Nor that life should be super-protected, like an ocean-going yacht moored permanently in a harbour. What he had – intellectually, socially, physically – was a gift to be used. There were great things to accomplish, and it would be a sin not to grasp every opportunity. You don’t retreat from challenges; you face them head on.

Around that time I was planning a visit to church workers in Pakistan. I’d never been to Asia, and was particularly nervous about Pakistan. But I was helped by advice from another friend. George had spent many years in a developing country, and he told me two particularly valuable things:

  1. Banish any idea that ‘this ought to happen’ (such as assuming a train should run at its scheduled time).
  2. ‘Just go for it’. Take advantage of every experience, enjoy it, and find what’s good in it.

Both those lessons have served me well in Asia and down the years. But it’s the second I want to highlight because ‘go for it’ was precisely Rick’s attitude. Rick didn’t let life happen; he made it happen. He got the best from everything and gave his best to everything.

You can’t be afraid of big challenges    From ancient to modern times, people have attempted the seemingly impossible. They sailed great oceans not knowing when or where they’d land. They explored huge jungles well aware they might die from disease or hostility. They were launched into space trusting to less technology than we have today in one mobile phone. They didn’t have to do these things. And yet they did. There’s something hard-wired into our psyches to reach beyond what’s already known or done, to push further and further out the boundaries of human accomplishments.

There’s a semi-serious answer mountaineers give when asked, ‘Why did you climb that mountain?’ Answer: ‘Because it’s there’. That’s true. But it’s not the whole truth. The fuller answer is: ‘Because it’s there, and climbing it proves that mountain is not greater than what I can achieve.’

For most of us our ‘big challenges’ aren’t Everest or K2. But our challenges are still big for us:

  1. Can I really do this job?
  2. Will this relationship work?
  3. Should I step out in faith?
  4. Can I take on this responsibility?

We should ask whether a big challenge is the right challenge for us. But, Rick would say, no challenge should be refused just because it’s ‘big’. We’re made to take on big challenges.

But you must put in the work    I was driving in Aberdeen late one evening, and noticed a runner jogging up the hill carrying weights in both hands. It was Rick. I couldn’t have run up that hill minus weights and with a wind behind me, but Rick was pushing his body to its limits. When we talked about it later, he added an important point, that on a mountain, roped with others, perhaps in near-blizzard conditions, your life and  their lives depend on everyone being supremely fit. Hence he was putting in the work before his next big climb.

Years ago I listened to an interview with the politician and novelist Jeffrey Archer. He was answering a listener’s question about how to become famous. His answer was that you have to be famous for something. So, he asked, what are you good at? Cooking? If so, train to be the best cook in the country and be famous for that. If you’re good at athletics, train to win major championships and be famous for that. Or you might be a superb singer, or hilarious comedian – put in the work, become the best, and then you’ll be famous. It’s nonsense to think you can just be famous. You have to be famous for something, and that requires years of hard work.

I’ve never forgotten that lesson. Nor Rick’s example. And I’ve tried to live it out. Before I became General Director of BMS World Mission, I’d read books on management and been responsible for a moderately large church. But BMS was a multi-million pound organisation working in 40 countries with hundreds of staff and volunteers. Heading up BMS was way beyond anything I’d done before. So, despite what seemed an impossible workload, I studied for a Masters degree in Business Administration (MBA). I read teaching materials and books on strategy, human resources, organisational structure, finance and more. When? Anytime I could, which included on planes, into the early hours of the morning during conferences, and while sitting on a thin mattress under a mosquito net in Angola. I put in the work, scored well in assignments and exams, and got my degree. Those studies helped greatly as I led BMS through change.

The biggest challenges are worthy of our best, and our best requires hard work.

Come to terms with the risks you are taking    Rick knew the risk of avalanches. He’d been caught in them before but survived, albeit with scars. Avalanches often occur after soft snow, but what comes thundering down a mountainside is everything that snow picks up on its descent such as rock, ice, and soil. It’s heavy and moves very fast. National Geographic explains: ‘A large, fully developed avalanche can weigh as much as a million tons. It can travel faster than 320 kilometers per hour (200 miles per hour).’*

Risk, though, doesn’t exist only in mountains. It’s part of everyday life. We accept risk when we cross the road, drive a car, take a flight, eat a meal. It’s risky to get out of bed. And it’s risky to stay in bed since many die in their sleep. In other words, you can’t live and avoid risk. We know that, and we accept a certain level of risk when we cross a bridge (it might collapse), walk down the street (a car might crash into us), mix with others (someone might attack us), and so on.

Rick wasn’t ignorant of mountaineering’s risks. Among his earlier near death accidents was one where he’d been given up for dead but then found still alive. (More details in news report links at the end of this blog post.)

But at least two things pushed Rick on. One, Rick had faith, knew his Maker, and was ready to stand before him. That didn’t mean he wanted to die; just that he was ready to die whenever the time came. Two, Rick couldn’t have lived a life geared to self-protection. He had a great career in the oil industry, but would never have settled for that as his only purpose. He had higher goals (literally). He was a great climber, one of the best in the world. That demanded hard training but it was also a gift, a passion, almost a calling which drove him to supreme achievements. In 2012, Rick and his friend Sandy Allan were the first to conquer the Mozeno Ridge in Pakistan, for which they received the prestigious Golden Ice Axe award. Was that easy? Was that safe? It was neither. But these men had an inner drive that faced immense risk and pressed on nevertheless.

Very few will ever be elite mountaineers. But, for all of us, any significant challenge we face comes with risk. To refuse the risk is to refuse the challenge. But the rewards for facing the challenge are great.

Rick bought me a book    I read a lot of books. Non-fiction for information and mind-stretching ideas. Fiction for page-turning excitement, especially in novels where there seems no possibility of a good ending.

Never, though, have I found the drama, suspense and excitement of fiction in a non-fiction book. Until, that is, Rick gave me Touching the Void by Joe Simpson. +

From the earliest pages of Touching the Void you know how it must end, but as I read  the book I was unable to believe it could end that way. It’s a survival story from a high altitude climb in the Peruvian Andes that went horribly wrong. The book was published in 1988, and is still in print. I could not recommend the book too highly. (Over a million copies have been sold, and more than 20 translations made. The book has won awards, been turned into a 2003 film, and recently into a stage play.)

I loaned out my copy of Touching the Void and the inevitable happened: it wasn’t returned. So I bought it again. It’s that good, and that important. Never have I been so inspired by an account of human determination to survive. I’ll always be grateful to Rick for buying me that book. I’ve just taken it off my bookshelf. It’s time to read it again, and Rick will keep speaking to me through its pages.

If I could talk to Rick one final time, here’s what I’d say: ‘Rick, you inspired me and helped me. And you’ve done that for thousands more. Thank you. Now you’ve made the ultimate final ascent. May God bless you.’

————————-

The following news stories describe Rick’s accident, and give more information on his life, especially his climbing.

https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-scotland-57964217

https://www.ukclimbing.com/news/2021/07/rick_allen_dies_in_k2_avalanche-72830

There are stories from the north of Scotland newspaper Press and Journal I’d encourage you to read, but any link I create embeds copyright protected photos! The way to find all the paper’s stories about Rick is by entering ‘press and journal Rick Allen’ in Google, and the stories will be listed.

* https://www.nationalgeographic.org/encyclopedia/avalanche/  During World War I Austrian and Italian troops fought in the Alps. In 1916 10,000 troops died in avalanches in a single day. In fact, avalanches killed more soldiers in World War I than poison gas did.

+ The book exists in several editions, the most recent published by Penguin: https://www.penguin.co.uk/books/1035723/touching-the-void/9781784875374.html

It’s available from most bookshops.

Yesterday is yesterday

When I started school, among many things I didn’t understand was why my desk had a hole. It was a perfectly round hole, nearly three inches across, in the top right corner.

I didn’t know what that hole was for until, three years later, the teacher came to each of our 42 desks and placed a black cup into the hole. She filled each cup with ink, and laid a pen and paper on our desks. The pen wasn’t a ball-point or fountain pen, just a shaped wooden shaft with a stylus on the end. She told us to dip the stylus in the ink, and then write on the paper. The ink quickly ran out so after each short sentence we had to dip our pens in the ink again. Writing was slow, and very, very messy.

We practised with ink and stylus for a year, and then our suffering ended. Why? Because someone realised this was a complete waste of time because ball-point pens and fountain pens were common by then. There must have been virtually no-one who dipped a stylus-only pen in and out of a reservoir of ink. Those days were gone.

Two other glaring instances of ‘persevering when the day is past’ stand out.

Typewriters    Part of my training for journalism was typing. I practised the drills and learned to touch type. Every finger except the left thumb was used, and soon I had no need to look at the keyboard. It’s a skill I still use today.

But that skill tempted me into my last, longest and least pleasurable experience with a typewriter. I made the brave but foolish decision to type my own doctoral thesis. As well as being 436 pages long, each of which had to be letter perfect, there were two special difficulties: a) much of the argument involved New Testament Greek, so I had to type each page leaving spaces to handwrite Greek into the gaps; b) I decided to create footnotes which, with a typewriter, requires calculating in advance the number of lines needed for that page’s footnotes so you could stop the main text with exactly enough space for the footnotes. My worst ever page to type had only two lines of main text and over 40 lines of a footnote. I lost count how many times I retyped that page. Almost every page was typed at least three times, but some pages many more than that.

Every page was typed on a small, portable electric typewriter. It was important that the margins didn’t change so I glued their settings in place. That typewriter lasted just long enough for me to finish. What a relief!

And then – then! – I bought my first computer (an Apple IIe). If only earlier. If I’d had a word processor before typing the thesis it would have calculated automatically the space needed for each page’s footnotes and every error would have been corrected before printing out. But I had stuck with my faithful old typewriter and made my life very difficult.

Typewriter manufacturers fought the good fight to keep their products selling after computer word processors became affordable. They gave them small memories so the typist had a chance to correct a mis-typing before the keys struck the paper. And they developed ‘golf ball’ typewriters which had no keys, just a super-fast spinning ball which struck the paper with exactly the same force every time ridding the script of light and dark letters. But no innovation could save the typewriter. The more that manufacturers churned out typewriters the more money they lost. The days of the typewriter were over.

Digital photography    As I understand it a Kodak engineer invented a digital camera in 1975. But Kodak made its money selling film, so did nothing with the idea. Other firms developed digital photography, while Kodak still tried to sell film. The giant of a former era of photography filed for bankruptcy in 2012. Film cameras still exist but only for a niche market. Film’s days are gone.

Those two examples could be multiplied. Most of us are slow to recognise when big change is happening around us, and even when we do we’re slow to let go of what’s familiar.

I’ll set down four categories where we’re ‘guilty’ of that. Some concern what’s happening in the world around us but all of them also touch on our internal reactions to change.

1. When we see change but don’t realise its significance

That would be true for Kodak and typewriter manufacturers. Some have said Kodak’s leadership thought they were in the photographic film business whereas they were really in the imaging business. That mistake imprisoned them in doing what they’d always done. Something the same happened with typewriters. Their manufacturers thought all the public wanted was better typewriters, not recognising that the disruptive technology of word processors would make their products permanently obsolete.

We think their mistakes were glaring failures to recognise new needs and opportunities. But at the time it wouldn’t have seemed like that to the CEO of Kodak or a typewriter manufacturer, someone immersed for years in one line of business and thinking all they needed to do was improve the product and raise the marketing budget. And, with no expertise in digital cameras or word processors, it’s not so surprising they shied away from what they didn’t understand or think important.

Many shun what they don’t understand or doubt. It happens with viruses and vaccines. With being told to abandon our petrol or diesel cars. With giving up the office for working from home. With radical changes to diet to counter obesity, diabetes and heart disease. What disturbs us frightens us, and we may react by denying the need to change.

2. When we don’t recognise a goal is unachievable

It happens in sport, in entertainment, in politics, with those chasing career promotion or, sadly, with those pursuing a significant personal relationship.

For every top golfer who is winning millions on a professional tour, there are tens of thousands slogging away in near poverty but still hoping that one day they’ll break through. And thousands of musicians borrowing small fortunes to produce professional standard videos believing that’ll give them a break in the pop world. And politicians aiming to run the country, but never getting further than the lowest level of local council work. Also millions working all hours at great cost to family life and personal health to climb the corporate ladder but never getting there. And the many women and some men I’ve counselled who want companionship and probably marriage, to love and be loved, but year after year it doesn’t happen.

My pain for that last group is as nothing compared to the pain they feel. And I’d never counsel anyone to close down their feelings. But, for those in other categories, there is a case for a reality check and accepting the goal that drove them on will never be achieved.

Arthur reached very high levels in one of the major oil-related companies. The work had been super-demanding, but very financially rewarding. Soon after he passed his 50th birthday, Arthur told me that if you hadn’t reached the top by age 50 in his line of business you’d never get there. He knew now his career goal was out of reach. Soon after he was offered a ‘package’ to leave. Once that’s offered, staying isn’t really an option. He accepted the deal, retired, and filled his life with voluntary work that fulfilled him, and at last he was able to give time to his wife and family.

3. When we don’t see or accept that something is over

Two blogs ago (‘Values and friendship’) I described a day out in my early 20s with then girlfriend Kate. On long drives I realised I was having to think up subjects for us to talk about. That was stressful. I wrote: ‘Warning bells rang, and the relationship with Kate gradually came to an end’. That was true. But that gradual ending actually took six months. Those extra months were not good for either of us. We should have recognised reality and ended the relationship earlier.

Many small and large things in our lives won’t work out. The only shame in that is when we won’t let them go.

Here is a little ancient wisdom from the book of Ecclesiastes in the Bible:

There is a time for everything,
    a time to be born and a time to die,
    a time to plant and a time to uproot,
    a time to tear down and a time to build,
    a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
    a time to search and a time to give up

These are selected verses from a longer list in Ecclesiastes chapter 3. Their message is that we need wisdom to know when to start, and wisdom to know when to stop.

4. When we can’t let go of our past

This is different from the earlier subjects, because it focuses on our internal feelings.

With people I’ve counselled, two things are often said:

  • I can never be different
  • I can never forgive myself

The first of these – the thought they could never change – imprisoned some. Usually they believed they could never escape their background. Perhaps been abused physically and/or sexually as children. Perhaps developed damaging and dangerous habits related to smoking, drinking, drugs. Perhaps grew up in an economically challenged area, with no opportunity or expectation other than drudgery, hard work and an early grave. Or perhaps been raised in such a privileged environment that later on they couldn’t relate to anyone from any other background.

The challenge for these folk was believing – really believing – it was possible to be different. That the old was yesterday and the new is today and those ‘days’ won’t be the same.

Not for a moment did I ever suggest that was easy. And very few changed overnight, so my ‘yesterday’ and ‘today’ statement shouldn’t be taken literally. But a new beginning really is possible. I’ve seen it happen with people from their teens through middle age to old age. The grip of what controls us can be broken.

The second statement – that they can’t forgive themselves – is a curious one. Why curious? Because often the full version is: ‘I know God can forgive me, but I can never forgive myself’. The cheating spouse can’t let go of their guilt for such an enormous betrayal. Or the exam cheat is dogged by knowing they didn’t deserve their degree, their job, their salary. God says they’re forgiven, but they can’t accept it.

I’ve never been a priest (just as well since I have a wife and four children) but have acted in a priestly way for some tortured by their past failings. They’ve told me exactly what they did (confession) and how they don’t live like that now (repentance). I’ve been able to assure them of God’s forgiveness and tell them his will now is that they release their guilt burden and live with no sense of condemnation (restoration/renewal). God has cast their sins into the deepest sea and erected a sign saying ‘No fishing’. Truly ‘the old has gone, the new is here!’ (2 Corinthians 5:17) Not all have found peace, but, with help, many have.

For every person who ever breathed, there have been days which were good and days which were bad. But those days are gone now. I sometimes tell myself that past things have drifted down river and round a bend, and they’ll never flow upstream back to me. Today is a new day. A good day. And there are better things to do than grieve over my old typewriter, film camera, unfulfilled goals, or past sins. Yesterday is yesterday.

Why quit while you’re ahead?

Two golfers have something strange in common. One was male and played more than 90 years ago, the other female who played more recently. Both were highly skilled, and greatly admired. In their twenties they were hard to beat, and had great golfing futures. But the strange thing they have in common happened when they were 28. They both quit.

Bobby Jones, an American, was always an amateur and played while also working as a lawyer. He won his first tournament at age 6, and shot to golfing stardom by winning the US Open in 1923 aged 21. By 1929 he’d won the US Open three times, the Open Championship (the UK’s top tournament) twice, and the US Amateur four times.

Then came 1930 when Jones did what no-one had before or since, he won the Grand Slam of Open and Amateur titles all in the same calendar year: the Amateur Championship (UK), the Open Championship, the US Open, and the US Amateur.

And then he stopped. He stayed involved with golf, such as designing Augusta National Golf Club and launching the Masters Tournament which is played there annually. But he retired from competitive golf aged 28 and practised law.

Lorena Ochoa, a Mexican, also quit at her best. She was ranked number one lady golfer in the world for 158 consecutive weeks (no-one since has got past 109 weeks), winning 30 titles in eight seasons, including two Majors. In each year from 2006 to 2009 she was the Ladies Professional Golfer Association player of the year. Then – aged 28 – she stopped. In an interview just after, she said she wanted to give time back to her family, and added: ‘I am very satisfied with my achievements’.

These are two examples, but ‘going out at the top’ isn’t unique to sport. I’m intrigued why people call a halt when things are going so well. Do they feel they’ve done all they can, and don’t want to see their abilities decline? Has the stress of getting to the top been too much and now they want out? Do they fear they’ll never produce such good work again? Or do they simply have other ambitions to fulfil?

Quitting while ahead isn’t done only by superstars.  Our achievements may be less spectacular, but they’re still achievements and family and friends would expect us to go further.

Why don’t we? Why stop doing what you’re good at doing?

I’ll describe four reasons.

Fear of not being able to repeat    Authors – including the most successful – are often afflicted with this thought. The last book was a blockbuster, and now they stare at a blank computer screen thinking, ‘I can never match that. I can never do that again’. Some get past their writers’ block and produce more good work. Some can’t even make themselves try.

The odd thing is that the more people praise us for doing well, the more we’re afraid we’ll disappoint them in the future. Perhaps an achievement was a one-hit wonder. We can’t sustain that standard and don’t want to fail, so we don’t try again.

Public acclaim comes with unreasonable expectations    I happen to be writing this blog the day before England play Italy in the final of the UEFA European Championship. Unquestionably the England football team has done well to get this far, and if they win the players will be legends in their lifetime. Children will be named after them. Huge financial rewards will flow their way. And, in England, the media and public opinion will declare the team near certainties to win the 2022 World Cup to be played in Qatar.

That’s enormous pressure. No matter how well paid, no matter how skilled, no matter what’s been won before, it’s hard to cope with that level of expectations.

Some thrive on pressure. It’s been true of top tennis players like Navratilova and Federer. But others have stopped while ahead. Björn Borg won 11 Grand Slam singles titles in seven years (including five consecutively at Wimbledon), and everyone expected more from him, but he quit aged 26, telling family and friends that tennis was no longer fun. Constantly trying to live out massive expectations would rob anyone of joy.

Failure to understand why we’re succeeding    Some personality types are happy to go with the flow of whatever happens; others like to feel in control. So when opportunity or achievement occurs, but you don’t know how or why, it’s unsettling.

Stanley Baldwin was Prime Minister in the UK three times in the 1920s and 1930s. Two out of the three occasions he didn’t expect to hold the post. In 1923 Prime Minister Bonar Law retired as soon as he was given a diagnosis of terminal cancer (and died soon after), and Baldwin was appointed PM.

After periods in and out of office, his third term began unexpectedly in 1935. Prime Minister Ramsay MacDonald was becoming increasingly senile, and Baldwin deputised for him. Then MacDonald’s health declined more severely, and Baldwin was formally made PM.

That third term was tumultuous, with furious debates about disarmament / rearmament in the run up to World War II, and then almost equally ferocious arguments about the intention of King Edward VIII to marry the twice divorced Wallis Simpson. Baldwin opposed the marriage, and ultimately the King abdicated.

Two times Baldwin was thrust into the top job unexpectedly. The strain on him during those years must have been immense.

I can’t come close to rivalling Baldwin’s situation as Prime Minister of the UK. But two of the major roles of my professional life were unexpected. I became General Director of the Baptist Missionary Society without ever having been a missionary overseas or served on any of BMS’s committees. BMS (now BMS World Mission) was founded in 1792 by William Carey, the first ever society of the modern missionary movement. BMS has an illustrious history. It is also a major charity, channelling millions of pounds per annum to the least evangelised and impoverished countries of the world. After 12 years in BMS’s most senior staff role, I accepted an invitation to become President of Northern Seminary in Illinois, USA. I had the right academic qualifications for the role, but – as I pointed out to my interviewers – I wasn’t American, hadn’t come through the American education system, and though I’d taught at university level in Edinburgh and Aberdeen didn’t have academic roles in my career background. They still made me President. Both those positions were challenging, especially when people assumed you knew things you couldn’t possibly know. I persevered; some wouldn’t.

Many find themselves in roles they didn’t expect or don’t think they deserve. Even when things are going well, they’re uneasy. The result? A level of discomfort that causes some to step away.

Physical, emotional or spiritual exhaustion    I’ve always loved the biblical account of Elijah. He’s a triumphant hero but that’s not the whole story. In the book of 1 Kings, chapter 18, he challenges hundreds of false prophets to prove their god’s strength against what the Lord can do. The true God will be able to light a sacrifice without human intervention. They meet on Mount Carmel. The prophets of Baal dance around their altar calling on their god, “But there was no response, no one answered, no one paid attention” (1 Kings 18:29). Then it was Elijah’s turn. He organised his altar and sacrifice, dug a trench around it, and had everything soaked with water three times. Then he prayed, and the fire of God fell and burned up the sacrifice, wood and stones. And the people cried out “The Lord – he is God! The Lord – he is God!” (1 Kings 18:39).

It was complete vindication about who was the true God and who was the true prophet. A great day for Elijah. That’s 1 Kings 18.

But 1 Kings 19 is very different. The Queen was furious her prophets had been killed, and threatened Elijah’s life. Elijah ran. When he stopped he left his servant, and went on another day into the wilderness. He was at breaking point. “He came to a broom bush, sat down under it and prayed that he might die. ‘I have had enough, Lord,’ he said. ‘Take my life; I am no better than my ancestors’” (1 Kings 19:4).

At first glance, his running away seems strange. If God hadn’t sent fire, Elijah’s life would have ended on Mount Carmel. But God did send fire and Elijah saw what God could do. But that was yesterday, and today he couldn’t cope, ran away and prayed God would take his life.

We might now call that a form of post traumatic stress disorder. Elijah had been through a hugely difficult experience. He’d survived but it had left him exhausted mentally and physically, overwhelmed and unable to cope. He couldn’t go on, and just wanted out.

Now five responses to these four reasons for quitting.

One   It’s okay to stop. Just because you do something well doesn’t oblige you to keep doing it. Besides, there will be other things you’d be good at. C.H. Spurgeon was a brilliant preacher during the Victorian era, packing massive crowds into churches. He founded a college (Spurgeon’s College is still operational today) to prepare more pastors and preachers, and in the early days interviewed all applicants himself. If a prospective student said he knew he was meant for ministry because he’d failed at almost everything else, Spurgeon always refused him. Spurgeon believed anyone who would be a good minister would be good at another six professions as well. He was right. And it’s true for more than ministers. If we can succeed in one thing, we can succeed in others. Moving on to something else isn’t the end of the road, just a junction at which we choose to turn.

 Two    Self-esteem and self-confidence are fragile things in almost everyone. I suspect someone who never self-doubts isn’t super competent but incapable of honest self-analysis. So when we doubt if we can be successful again we’re being normal and natural. And it might be right just to press on. I have a coffee coaster which includes words that have meant much to me down the years: ‘Believe in God; believe also in thyself’. I have believed in God since a child, and the coaster constantly reminds me to believe also in the self God made me. There is such a thing as righteous self-confidence. It’s not pride, and not mere positive thinking. It’s saying ‘I can do this thing and keep doing it. And I can face whatever comes next’.

Three    You might imagine successful people hear nothing but praise. You’d be wrong. I’d preached to about 2000 at a national gathering, and many gathered afterwards to thank me. Then came a lady in tears. During my talk I’d told the story of how my daughter nearly died when caught in a strong tide, and that had triggered memories in her of how her son was murdered by drowning. I couldn’t have known her situation, and my story was appropriate to my message, but I was deeply sorry I’d upset that lady and spent time talking with her. Afterwards I remembered almost none of the kind words said to me that night, but vividly remembered that lady’s pain. She was right to speak to me, and I learned lessons from how deeply she’d been affected. But the criticisms of some others are not legitimate, and I’ve tried not to be too affected by foolish comments. And, whether the negative criticisms are foolish or wise, still to face forward and do what I’ve been called to do.

Four    There can be a streak of perfectionism in high achievers. When our projects are going super-well, we imagine everything is exactly as it should be. But rarely is that true. Most things contain flaws or mistakes. The perfectionist can’t cope with that. If it’s not remedied immediately, the temptation is to get out. But none of us can escape the real world in which things are hardly ever entirely perfect. They’re good, but they’re not 100 per cent as they should be. So, especially when there’s more to be done than can be done, we must accept that good enough is good enough. Life is a balancing act of competing goals and responsibilities, and to give more time to perfect one is to steal time from another. Good enough isn’t perfect, but often it’s perfectly acceptable.

Five    There are two very down-to-earth reasons Elijah ran away when Jezebel threatened his life. 1) It wasn’t just spirituality that had sustained him on Mount Carmel, it was adrenalin. When he came down the mountain the adrenalin drained away, leaving him deflated and vulnerable. 2) He was exhausted, and therefore less able to cope. By the time he’d fled into the wilderness and prayed to die he was beside himself with tiredness and hunger. So, after he’d slept, an angel wakened him and gave him food and drink. He slept again, and a second time he was wakened to eat and drink. Only then was he fit to move forward, learn lessons and accept new challenges. I’ve learned not to look for super-complicated explanations when very ordinary factors are staring us in the face. Elijah didn’t need to die. Rather, after giving out so much, he needed time, rest, and a renewed vision for what was ahead for his life.

Most likely you’re not a golfing, tennis or football superstar. Nor a Prime Minister or a prophet. But you may feel you can’t keep doing what you’re doing even though it’s going well. I meant what I wrote earlier that it’s okay to stop. But often it’s also okay to keep going.  Reaching a ‘Stop’ sign usually means ‘Stop and check’, not ‘Stop and never move forward’.

May God make you wise with your decisions.

When Alistair met Eve

I phoned home and Alison listened carefully as I explained the situation. Then silence. For a little too long. Then, slowly, Alison said, ‘So last week you climbed Lochnagar, got lost in the mist, and nearly died. This week you climbed Lochnagar, found a woman, and you’re bringing her home.’

‘Yes, that sums it up,’ I replied.

Seems like I need to explain what led up to that conversation, and what followed from that conversation.

If you’ve read the last two blogs, you’ll know that I climbed Lochnagar, a 1155 metres (3789 ft) mountain not too far from our Aberdeen home. I should never have gone all the way to the mist-shrouded summit because visibility was no more than two or three metres. But I got up. What I couldn’t do was find a safe way down. I’d no compass to plot a path between cliffs one side and a large and dangerous wilderness on the other side. Amazingly, and some would say miraculously, at my third attempt a footprint between rocks pointed me in the right direction and I escaped the mountain.

Afterwards I was angry at my foolishness. I’d told no-one where I was going; I had no equipment for the climb, nor emergency provisions like a whistle or survival blanket; I should never have attempted to reach the top through the mist. Now my anger made me determined to do the climb again, this time properly prepared.

So I went shopping. I already had a good jacket, boots and map, but there was plenty more to buy: warm gloves, mid layer fleece, windproof hat, compass, book on how to use compass and map together, survival blanket, decent small rucksack to carry it all. I was ready for my next venture one week after the first.

This time Alison was well-informed where I was going. When I parked the car, I wrote a note of the route I’d take up the mountain, the time I was setting off, contact details, and placed the note in an ‘emergency box’. Then off I went along the track, over the stream, and up the first stage of Lochnagar.

Again it was a beautiful, sunny day. The views were majestic across the heather to distant hills. Deer roamed freely, paying me no attention whatsoever. This was their mountain.

Just short of the ‘shoulder’ between Lochnagar and its neighbouring mountain, I saw another climber ahead. I was walking quicker so we met at the point overlooking the small loch below Lochnagar’s cliffs. We exchanged friendly greetings. Her name was Eve, an American from about as far away as you can get in mainland USA, Washington State, in the northwest corner of the country. She’d climbed a few other Scottish mountains but never Lochnagar. I, of course, was a veteran. So I pointed up to Lochnagar’s peak which, thankfully, was perfectly clear against a background of blue sky. That’s where we were both going.

Understandably, then, we set off together up the rocky slope, an area I’d hardly seen the previous week because of thick mist. Now I realised just how steep it was. Slip, and you might not stop for a long time. Both of us were soon out of breath, so conversation was limited.

But once on the stone-covered plateau at the top, and we’d each caught our breath, the going was easier and conversation resumed. Eve was a doctor, not long fully qualified, working somewhere not far from Seattle. I explained I was a Baptist minister from Aberdeen and a Scot born and bred.

We made our way slowly towards the summit, occasionally peering carefully over the cliffs. Eve wanted me to take her photo standing on the edge, so she walked out on a protruding rock while I retreated to a place where I could picture her and the sheer drop beneath where she stood. I much preferred where I was to where she was.

We moved on and reached the peak. Both of us had brought something to eat and drink, and in the near-warmth of the sunshine, we sat on stones admiring the view and eating our lunches.

Of course we talked. I told her about my wife and children, about my work as a pastor in the city. Eve talked about her trip across the Atlantic, which she was happy to be doing alone. She’d seen other parts of Scotland, and now the climb up Lochnagar was the last event of her great adventure. She’d pitched her one-person tent on the campsite at nearby Ballater, and planned to pack up and catch a country bus to Aberdeen around 6.00 next morning. Less than a half hour after reaching the city, she’d get on a coach for the 550-mile journey to London, and a few hours after that she’d be on the plane back to the USA.

The plan was perfect in principle, but not so perfect in the real world. I explained that country buses in the Scottish Highlands didn’t always run exactly to stated timetables, and there was a risk she might not be in Aberdeen bus station before the London bus left. Eve didn’t say much. She had to catch that long-distance coach and the country bus was her only way of getting there early in the morning.

I gave her another choice. ‘You’d be welcome to come back to our home, sleep overnight, and I’ll take you to the bus station in the morning.’

I don’t recall Eve saying anything at that point. Which was not surprising, since we’d only met on the mountain and I might be telling all sorts of lies to lure her into danger. I don’t think I looked like an axe-murderer, but, there again, what does an axe-murderer look like?

We talked some more about other things, finished eating, and began our descent. This time the first part was a simple stroll because I could see where I was going, which would be neither over the cliffs, nor a drift away into ‘no man’s land’.

As we walked Eve said, ‘Your wife really wouldn’t mind having an unexpected overnight guest?’

‘No, not at all. She’d be delighted,’ I replied with super-confidence.

‘Well, if you’re sure…’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Thank you. I’m very grateful.’

So, down the rocky slope and then the gentle track we went back to my car. We drove to Ballater, found a phone box, and I called Alison. The conversation I quoted at the beginning of this blog post really happened, but it’s only fair to say there was a hint of amusement in Alison’s voice. Over the years she’d grown used to surprises, including handkerchiefs returning in the post from women I’d reduced to tears. (The tears were because they’d become upset during counselling and I’d given them my handkerchief.)

Alison was genuinely okay that I should bring Eve back with me, and said she’d adjust her plan for our evening meal with the family.

I took Eve to the campsite where she collapsed her tent, gathered her possessions, and off to Aberdeen we went. Eve was delightful company that evening, and very appreciative of a home-cooked meal.

She slept well, and I made sure next morning that she reached the bus station in plenty time for her London-bound coach. A few weeks later we received a letter from Eve, thanking us, and enclosing a photo of her standing on a rock above the cliffs. (We didn’t keep contact. I hope she’s still climbing mountains and is having the brilliant medical career she deserves in Washington State or wherever else she’s gone.)

Looking for wisdom in this tale could come by asking some questions of ourselves.

How well do we cope when circumstances change?  I am blessed with a wife who adjusts to new situations. For example, while I was a pastor in Aberdeen we never knew how many would be with us for Sunday lunch. After the church service, we’d find students looking lost or looking hopeful, and invite them back for a meal and to spend the rest of the afternoon with the family if they wanted. So, Alison would get home, raid the freezer, and prepare food for somewhere between six and sixteen people. Jesus fed five thousand. Alison can’t do that, but has remarkable abilities to stretch resources so that everyone enjoys a great meal.

It’s not everyone who has the ability to do that, and the attitude to cope with needing to do that. The ability isn’t much use without the attitude, because people soon pick up when they’re not welcome or putting you to a lot of trouble.

Those who must have control need to know what’s happening and when it’s happening. They require order. There’s strength in that, but also weakness. So, a gentle challenge: how well do we cope when circumstances change?

How open are we to helping complete strangers?  We didn’t know Eve before that day. But she came to our home, ate a meal with the family, slept overnight, and was taken to the bus station next morning. Why do that for Eve? Because she needed help. Her plan to get an early bus to the city might have worked out, but there was more than a fair chance it wouldn’t. That would have caused huge problems for the last part of her stay in the UK. So we helped. It really was as simple as that.

Being helpful and hospitable is good. Hospitality, in fact, is commanded in the New Testament (Romans 12:13). But it’s a command not always noticed or practised. Which is a shame, not just for those who miss out on our kindness but for us who miss meeting wonderful people. How open are we to helping complete strangers?

Why do some people behave rashly?  That’s not a question about why I invited Eve to stay the night with my family. It’s a question about why my whole Lochnagar adventures happened at all. Why would someone considered sensible and trustworthy set off so appallingly unprepared to climb a mountain? Not telling anyone where he was going? Choosing to keep going to a summit blanketed in mist? Why?

The answer is that I was depressed. I was hardly sleeping at night, couldn’t think straight, didn’t believe my life was useful or that I mattered, and much more. My doctor had ‘signed me off work’ two months before I headed for Lochnagar. On that day I didn’t deliberately tell no-one where I was going, nor intend to get lost in the mist, and of course I tried desperately to get off the mountain. I wasn’t trying to die. But I was being stupidly reckless. And that was because I was depressed.

Not everyone who behaves rashly is depressed. Of course not. But out-of-character behaviour often has a back-story, something deeply troubling but not told or obvious. Before we condemn their behaviour, we might stop and wonder if something unknown is giving rise to that behaviour. Instead of judgment, they may need compassion.

Three last footnotes.

First, thank you for bearing with a certain amount of indulgence in my writing about these Lochnagar experiences. Although it’s ancient history now, the feelings of that day are remarkably fresh. And, perhaps, there’s been something therapeutic in telling the story. Your patience and interest is appreciated.

Second, my congregation knew why I was away from my normal church duties. I hadn’t believed I could have depression until my doctor very firmly gave me that diagnosis, and said I wouldn’t get well unless I stepped away from work. I preached the following Sunday, and then told the congregation I had depression and needed to be off work for a while. I was met with nothing but kindness, understanding and sympathy. I thought my absence would be for two weeks, but it was five months, and the depression lasted much longer than that. One day I’ll write more about those times.

Third, I have a large project to complete and less than two weeks to do it, so I won’t try and write a blog right in the middle. Hopefully the next one will appear around the end of this month. Again, your patience is appreciated.

Escape from Lochnagar

I’m in trouble. The last blog post included an unfinished account of being lost up a mountain in mist, trapped between steep cliffs on one side and miles of wilderness on the other. One of my daughters said, ‘You can’t leave us with a cliff-hanger like that!’ (Very ‘punny’.)

With a son and three daughters I’ve long since learned to refuse their pleadings. But this time it’s fair to make me complete the story. I don’t often explain how I got down the mountain because it’s always seemed strange. So please accept that while I can explain what happened, I can’t explain why it happened.

First, a quick recap to set the scene. Without telling anyone where I was going, I set off one bright morning to climb Lochnagar, a 1155 metres (3789 ft) mountain, about 50 miles from our home in Aberdeen. I was stupidly unprepared. Apart from boots and a jacket, the only sensible thing I had with me was a map. Without a compass, the map had limited use. I should never have gone to Lochnagar’s summit because, from lower down, I’d seen that it was shrouded in mist. But I hadn’t come that far to turn back, and I made it to the top. Getting down was the problem. Visibility was only two or three metres at best, and I knew from the map there were deadly cliffs off to my left, and miles of wilderness off to my right. Lochnagar’s summit perches on top of a plateau of rock, so there was no trail to follow. Twice I set off, was quickly lost, and sensibly didn’t keep going but returned to the top. (A summit is always ‘up’ so I knew which way to go.) My third attempt at a descent was worse. Again I was lost within minutes, then walked into a boulder, and fell over it hurting my leg. I knew that if I’d broken my leg I’d have died. No-one knew I was there; no-one was coming to rescue me.

This is the point when I stopped last week’s story. So, what happened next?

I was wet, cold and hurting. All these would only get worse if I stayed still. I had to move. Very carefully I took some steps, pausing after each one. The mist was so impenetrable I knew that if I walked at any pace I’d fall over the cliff edge before I could stop. Step by step I eased forward, with no idea at all which way I was going. The plateau of rock was near flat, so I didn’t even know for sure I was going down. And, if I was, going where? Towards the cliffs, or into miles of barren land?

That thought triggered my memory of an old hymn. No-one else was going to hear, so I sang out loud the opening lines.

Guide me O thou Great Jehovah,

Pilgrim through this barren land;

I am weak, but thou art mighty;

Hold me with thy powerful hand.

Exactly as I sang those words I glanced down and saw a footprint. I couldn’t believe it. I’d been walking on rock where there were no footprints. But right here – in one tiny patch of ground between rocks – was earth with a boot-sized footprint.

The tread of that climber’s boot pointed partly left from the line I’d been on (as if towards 10 on a clock). Surely whoever left that tread mark was also going down this mountain. I turned in the direction the footprint pointed and walked. After only two minutes something moderately large loomed out of the mist. I edged closer. It was a cairn, a triangular pile of stones. Cairns are built at the summit of mountains, but also beside trails so walkers can find their way in blizzard or misty conditions. Seeing that cairn was the best possible thing that could happen. I was going the right way.

I knew there would be more cairns, but the mist was unrelentingly impenetrable and other cairns would be at least ten metres away, further than I could see. I’d have to leave one cairn to find the next. But staying where I was wasn’t an option. I took about three steps, looked back and my cairn was gone. Another step, and another, another, another. Had I gone the wrong way? Then, through the mist, I saw a shape, got closer and found another cairn. So the descent began, leaving one cairn behind in the mist in hope that the next cairn would appear through the mist. As I moved off the plateau, the cairns stopped but now I could see a faint trail. I edged my way very cautiously because I was now on a severely steep slope and a fall would propel me over rocky ground down the side of the mountain. The result would be at least broken bones and unconsciousness. I’d be unlikely to survive.

But I made it down that slope. I stepped out of the wall of mist into sunlight. Over to my left I could see the cliffs and the loch below them, and to my right the track I needed to follow down the rest of the mountain. It was all the same as when I arrived, the highest third of Lochnagar blanketed with mist, but clear skies and good visibility below. Back on the main path, I made easy progress down the hill, back to my car, drove to nearby Ballater and called home to Alison. She was amazingly calm. ‘I was wondering how to tell the police my husband hadn’t returned from a walk. They’d have asked where he’d gone, and all I could have told them was somewhere west, and they’d have pointed out that everything inland from the Aberdeen coastline is west. They wouldn’t have known where to start looking for you.’

I returned home, penitent, relieved and angry. Penitent about my utter foolishness, making Alison worry whether I was hurt or lost, and not knowing how she could help. Relieved, of course, because I hadn’t died and had come back to my family. And angry for the utter mess I’d made of climbing Lochnagar. I was so angry that within a couple of days I decided I had to climb it again – which I did exactly one week after the first expedition. And that ascent also ended in a wholly unexpected way, but that story is for the next blog post.

So, what wisdom comes out of this story?

First, know when to cut your losses. My near-death experience on Lochnagar was completely avoidable. I’d told no-one where I was going. I didn’t have the experience or the equipment to climb a high mountain. And I should never have gone to the summit.

On that last point, there was a moment of decision when I made the wrong decision. I stood on ground overlooking the loch and gazed up towards a summit I couldn’t see because everything above me was in thick mist. I thought, ‘I’ve come this far. I’m not turning back now’. That thought could have killed me.

There’s a name for a mistake like that: it’s called the ‘sunk cost fallacy’. A cost is ‘sunk’ when it’s already been spent. The ‘fallacy’ is when it’s clear that stopping the plan or project at mid-point is best, but you carry on because of the large investment already made.

Close to where I grew up large amounts of money were spent creating a new mine. The talk was of 100 years of coal being dug out of the ground. A major ‘new town’ was built close by to provide homes for the workers. But miners from other local pits warned that a colliery in that place would flood. But a huge investment had already been made, so construction went ahead. The mine did flood, and production ceased after only five years. Those in charge had moments when they could have stopped, but they didn’t. So much had already been invested.

I should have stopped, and walked back down Lochnagar as soon as I saw that the summit was shrouded in mist. Determination to keep going was not my friend. It could have killed me. Wisdom lies in knowing when to stop, when to cut your losses. Danger lies ahead for those who won’t rethink their plans.

Second, we can’t always explain or define our experiences. What exactly happened that allowed me to live? The obvious facts are easy: I tried to descend twice and got lost; I tried a third time and got lost again, but started singing a hymn about God’s guidance, suddenly saw a boot print, followed its direction, found cairns, and got on the trail that took me to safety. At one level that’s what happened.

But at another level I don’t know what happened. Many Christians would say I experienced a miracle. God heard me, and in his mercy gave me a sign that pointed me to safety. I believe in miracles, so that could be true.

But I hesitate to claim that. Why? I have two reasons.

First, my escape felt miraculous but I’ve never been sure if that’s the right word for what happened. There were certainly remarkable factors: singing that hymn, and immediately seeing a highly unlikely boot print which pointed me to a cairn which led me to other cairns and to safety. Each of these is ordinary, but what’s extraordinary is how they came together at my moment of greatest need. Was that just a coincidence? I can’t say it was, yet I still hold back from calling it a miracle. I didn’t see a vision. I didn’t hear a voice telling me which direction to take. If I had, I’d be thinking in ‘miracle’ terms. I’d have no other explanation. But there are other explanations for a boot print in earth and a cairn on the mountain. So – without in any way denying God’s mercy to me – I want to be cautious in my language about the experience.

Second, many others who climb Scotland’s mountains get into trouble but no miracle saves them. They slip and fall, or get buried in an avalanche, or get lost and die from hyperthermia. But I didn’t die, and I can’t think of any reason why I should be saved by a miracle and they weren’t. I didn’t deserve it, for if miracles are a matter of deserving, there’d be none. No-one is good enough. And I wasn’t especially spiritual or trusting that day. I was frightened – the most likely outcome was death. In short, there’s no reason why God should show me any special favour more than others, so I’m slow to use the word ‘miracle’ about my escape.

These thoughts also remain with me:

I am immensely grateful to have lived that day. We should be thankful for every good thing whether we understand it or not.

I lived, and that allowed me to do more with my life. The next day is never guaranteed to anyone, so the time we have should be lived well and used well.

Bad experiences teach us important lessons. I’ve climbed many mountains since, but never again without letting others know where I was going and carrying the right equipment. (I even bought an ice axe – that’s taking things seriously!) The old saying that the one thing we learn from history is that no-one learns from history doesn’t have to be true at the personal level. We can learn, and we probably learn more from tough times than easy times.

Next week the final story about Lochnagar and what (or who?) I brought home to Alison.