Belly Crawl

My life has sunk to a new low, and I think I like it. 

Last week, Rick and I went on our annual anniversary adventure, this year to the Ozark Mountains of northern Arkansas. There’s much to see and do in that area, and we couldn’t squeeze it all into six days. I see another trip in our future. We hiked. We swam. (Wading ankle-deep in the river counts as swimming, right?) We even drove up to Branson one day and watched a show. 

Perhaps the most memorable thing we did, however, was our trip to Eden Falls at Lost Valley near Ponca, AR. We hiked and climbed and crawled over rocks and roots and more green stuff than you can imagine, all to find one of the most beautiful waterfalls I’ve ever seen. We explored a deep crevice in a mountain of rock where 2,000-year-old artifacts were found by archaeologists. All that, and I was ready to call our trip a success. 

Rick had other ideas. The conversation went something like this: 

Him: But we’re not done yet.

Me: What do you mean, we’re not done? We saw the waterfall. We went in the cave. What more is there to see?

Him: This is only the first cave and the first waterfall. There’s another one.

Me: Oh. Where?

Him. (Points nearly straight up, to the top of a steep rock hill.)

Sigh. 

I didn’t even argue with him, because he had that look in his eye. You know the look. It’s that six-year-old-boy-in-a-middle-aged-man’s eye that says he’s about to do something thrilling and dangerous whether you like it or not. 

Up the hill we went, him first, me panting along behind. Finally, when my calves were burning, my chest pounding, and my gluteus maximus was surely a little less maximus, we arrived at the mouth of a little cave. Only, to get into the cave we had to jump across a three-foot-wide canyon that plummeted to a raging, rock-filled river below. 

Okay, when I say plummeted, I mean it was a four-foot drop. 

Maybe three feet. But there were definitely rocks. And the water? Perhaps raging isn’t the best word. Sassy might be a better description. There was undeniable sass. 

Somehow, I made it across the canyon. That’s when Rick led me into a tiny little passageway—a crack, really. I thought surely the crack would get bigger . . . that once I squeezed my now-gluteus-minimus through the tight spot, the cave would open up and we’d be done. 

I was wrong. 

The tunnel got smaller. The ceiling got lower. I hunched. Then I ducked. Then I crawled through the mud and rocks, all the while thinking I was almost there. Surely, I had to be nearly there. 

Then came the point when I could no longer crawl on my hands and knees. I had to lay flat on my belly if I wanted to proceed. Or I could turn around and go back the way I’d come . . . but it was dark in that cave, and all I had was a teensy little flashlight, and at the time, Rick was my only (dubious) source of protection. So I kept moving forward, inch-by-inch, millimeter-by-millimeter, my backpack pressing against the cave roof. My palms, elbows and knees ached; my clothes were soaked and muddy. But in the distance, somewhere in front of me, I heard the rush of a waterfall. Soon, the ceiling got taller, and I was able to lift my head, then my shoulders, then crawl, hunch, and walk. And there, in the pitch-black of the cave, illuminated by Rick’s flashlight, was a waterfall!

That moment was among the most magical, fairy-like moments of my life to this point. I stood in that cave, water rushing in front of me and trickling past my ankles, and thought about how small I am. And about how big God is. And about how He creates beauty even in the darkest places, in the places where no one sees, in the places where you’d think no good thing could exist. 

We stood there, not saying much, shining our flashlights up and down the waterfall, breathing it all in, sealing it in our memory vaults to take with us, in case we never witness this particular brand of miracle again. 

Then we belly crawled our way back through the crevice, back to the light. And though I was relieved to stand tall and breathe in the sunshine and open space, I left that place changed. 

I don’t think I’ll ever be afraid of the dark again. 

“Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? . . . If I say, ‘Surely the darkness will hide me and the light will become night around me,’ even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you,” Psalm 139: 7, 11-12.