This is route 287 through the Poudre Canyon. It’s a scenic drive along the Cache la Poudre River, about 45 minutes to an hour North of Downtown Fort Collins, Colorado. Thirty-four miles away from everything.
The river offers world-class paddling and in the summer all sorts of guided trips on on it at any given moment. The roadside cliffs also offer hundreds of high-end rock climbs with no approach hike… I had come to Fort Collins to house/dog sit for a friend while he and his wife got married back East.
… That summer changed the course of the history of me and my future family… forever.
I died along this river that summer.
Right at the base of one of the pull-offs for a climbing spot.
My first two years of college were a druken-drug fest until I found myself in Nicaragua during a Jan-Term picking coffee for the Sandinista Government. I sobered up almost completely after living with 16 yo members of the militia who had Assault Rifles strapped on their backs. I finished well on the Dean’s List with a “useless” undergraduate degree in US History.
I spent my first year after graduation floating aimlessly. Neither of my parents had gone to a four-year college and they could not help me on a career path. I had no plans for graduate school as I had no clue about graduate school. I had no career counseling before I gradated. Without any ties so when the opportunity arouse to go to Colorado to climb for a summer and house/dog sit for a college buddy I jumped on it quick.
I had come out prepared to stay in Colorado or head further West to California. I had brought my surfboards with me and they spent the month propped up in the corner of the living room in the little house of Cherry Street just outside of town. I worked a pit for a painter and each day would take off with some local guys to the cliffs and climb. I was twenty five and down to nothing but muscle and long sun-bleached hair climbing at an ability level on par with the anyone around.
Summer wore on, my friends returned and the plans I had for a housemate fell through. I was homeless, so I would drive up the canyon each day to a campground at “The Narrows”, sleep in my car, and drive back the next day…after a month of this I began to get tired. Living in your car and keeping a job is hard work. One night I called my a mutual friend of ours back East and told him my situation. He did not hesitate to invite me to live with him and his parents while he was working on his Masters. “Come and work for my day, save some money, and figure things out”.
That sounded really good, but what made me say yes was his family. They did not yell at each other, they Loved each other. He and his sister really did have a relationship. The house was filled with peace…. and they really believed in Jesus, the one I had encountered as a little boy at the altar rail when my priest put his hands on my head an prayed. I wanted to that peace I felt then, and what I felt in their house.
I climbed down to the base of the cliff, sat on a rock, close my eyes and without any coaching prayed “I don’t believe in you God, I hate your people, I have hated you, but I am done. I give up, if you are real please show me.
I opened my eyes and could not see past the golden light surrounding me. I could feel it more than see it. The next day I picked up my last check, went to the grocery store and cashed it. Filled up my car with gas, bought a carton of Marlboro Cigaretts,, pointed myself East and pushed the gas.
My transmission broke when I saw the Gateway Arch in Missouri but I only lost 5th gear so I kept driving. I lost most of my brakes in Ohio, and my car was stuttering something fierce so I pulled into an auto shop. The mechanic fixed my carburator and showed he what to do if it happened again… he charged me $12.50 for the half hour of labor. .
I pulled out of the lot, and continued East. I would stop for gas and coffee and I don’t remember eating. I took a five minute power nap somewhere too. I had called my parents when I left to let them know I was driving back and would explain when I arrived.
Thirty-nine hours after that call, I pulled into the driveway of the house I thought I had left for good. My dad was in the driveway, he turned and looked at me like I was a ghost. I was exepected to arrive in three days.
“Bryan, what happened?” was all he could
smuster through a daze of confusion.
“Dad” I said,
“I met Jesus”
That summer I died along that river. Not a physical death, a spiritual one. I died to myself and rose as a new creation made in the Image of God. I have not stopped passionately seeking Jesus and advancing His kingdom since that dad in Colorado.
One day, the Bible tells us that God sent a man of his to speak to his people just like he spoke to me. “How long willl you waiver?’“ Holy Fire fell down from heaven that day and all those assembled cried out in one voice; “The LORD-he is God, The LORD-he is God” (see 1 Kings 19).
God is always calling out to every human being… how long will. you waiver. God demands that we follow him and trust him and him alone.
What about you?
Has the Holy Fire of God consumed YOU too?