“He Restores My Soul”                                                                             November 27, 2020

 

“Boys! I have a challenge for you!” called out Mr. Ladner.

 

Our teacher of the Boys Sunday School Class knew how to get our attention. Give us a challenge. 

 

Once he had challenged us to a foot race between Sunday School and Worship. We only had a few minutes but he said he could beat all of us in a race around the outside of the building. Could a 30 something expect to win over 11 year olds? But he did. I didn’t think a farmer could run that fast and that far.

 

Another time he challenged us to a push up contest as the class started. All eight of us were on the floor when he said, “Go.” I didn’t last too long. Roy was more athletic and I was sure he would win. When Roy gave out, Mr. Ladner did one more then began to teach the lesson without even being short of breath, plus we were much quieter and less active than usual.

 

“If all of you memorize the 23rd Psalms, I’ll take you on a camping trip to the river.” What a challenge. “You must each one say it without looking, without help and without any mistakes.”

 

All of us flipped open our King James Version to check it out. It wasn’t too long. It didn’t seem too difficult. 

 

The challenge was accepted and excited talk broke out about swimming, campfires, tents, fishing and ghost stories.

 

“Each Sunday you will have two opportunities to say it correctly, once at the start of class and once at the end. You will say it to me and I’ll check you. When all of you have said it correctly, we’ll go camping.”

 

That week, I started memorizing “The Lord is my shepherd.”

 

Now, memorization has never been my strong point. In the first grade when I finally made it through the alphabet in order because everyone else had and I was embarrassed at my ignorance.

 

Later a math teacher conceived a multiplication table which I flounder on way too long. 

 

I didn’t want to disappoint the other seven so I started trying to get my mind to work.

 

The next Sunday I made it through “I shall not want” before messing up. I asked my school teacher mother to help me. She suggested reading it through each day. With that endeavor I made it through the “still waters.”

In my next attempt I forgot “He restoreth my soul.”

 

I gave serious attention the next week. 

 

Mr. Ladner posted a board with our names and a place for a star. We watched as stars began to appear. My name was sadly lacking.

 

The next week I gave a valiant try. As a good teacher, he let me go all the way through before he pointed out I had completely skipped “He restoreth my soul.” I made another effort at the end of the class only to forget the same sentence.

 

No star that week

 

At home each day I said it over and over but often I missed that same phrase. What did it mean anyway? I knew what a shepherd was. I understood green pastures. Still waters would be where we would camp. Valleys and shadows were clear. A table prepared must be the Baptist potluck. But restoring my soul? What did David mean anyway?

 

The next week the other laggard and I gave it our best try. Every boy was watching and mouthing the words with us. He completed it to the relief of everyone. Now the whole camping trip was up to me. 

 

I started in with great confidence. Before going to church I had said it perfectly to my mother. I knew I could do it. I was going good when I noticed the expressions on every face changed. I had forgotten “my soul” again. With great patience, Mr. Ladner said, “You’ll have another try at the end of the class.”

 

I didn’t hear the lesson that day. I was repeating the psalm, making sure my soul was restored each time. At the end of the class I stood with my back to the rest of the boys so there would be no distraction. I was slow and deliberate. I repeated in my mind as I started, “He restoreth my soul.” I carefully inserted it and finished, ready to be congratulated and have the class give a victory cheer. They would probably put me on their shoulders and march around the church..

 

But it was very quiet. “You got it 100% correct, except you got “Restoreth my soul” in the wrong place. No last star on the board. No plans for camping yet.

 

The next Sunday, at the start of the class everyone was cheering for me. I closed my eyes, picturing the entire passage. I was slow and very careful. When “I restored my soul”, I heard some release the breath they had been holding. I finished it perfectly. The class jumped from their chairs and cheered like I had scored the winning football score. The teacher even gave me a hug and a star, then tried to quieten the class for the lesson.

 

I was relieved and happy. I didn’t know about my soul but I was glad my memory had been restored.

 

Fast forward fourteen years and I have been able to memorize formulas for geometry, the periodic table for chemistry, the Greek alphabet for college and even some dates for church history. I had finished high school, college and seminary. 

 

Four of us preacher boys wanted to celebrate our graduation from Golden Gate Baptist Seminary with a camping and fishing trip into the high Sierras. Cecil Cornwell had filled us with expectations of a challenging adventure to the eleven thousand foot level where we would catch our limit of Golden Trout, found only there.

 

So early September, before the cold weather would set in, we drove to Bishop, California, hiked the rocky trail to Piute Pass.

Because I had been called to Pastor the First Baptist Church of Truckee, located about seventy-five hundred feet, I was acclimatized somewhat to the higher altitude. 

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We had failed to consult the weather report but this was September. A strong wind was soon slowing our headway. Well before we reached the top, I often stopped to catch my breath and shift my pack. At each pause, I became aware the wind velocity was increasing the higher we rose. I studied the heavy clouds with concern about what they had in store for us.

 

At the top of the pass, we experienced the early flakes of snow. Cecil would only let us pause briefly. “It is a gentle slope downward from here to the lakes,” he encouraged.

 

It may have been downhill but the wind was now trying to blow us back on our previous trek. I had to lean forward at a ridiculous angle just to make headway.

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It was a great relief when Cecil said, “This is our spot.” and we dropped our packs. We began to set up the tent in some green manzanita trees that were more like bushes. 

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The two other pastors told Cecil and I that they thought it would be best to return back to Bishop. The snow was getting worse and the wind stronger. I doubted our wisdom but decided to trust Cecil’s experience. Besides, I didn’t think I had the energy to make it back down the trail. So they left the two of us to face the storm on our own.

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The wind whipped our two man tent as we fought to set it up. With no hope for cooking or even warming our food we ate some dark chocolate Ghirardelli bars, and decided that being in the tent at four o’clock was an excellent idea. 

The air matresses provided some cushion from the granite rocks and the sleeping bags gave some warmth for our weary bodies. 

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The flapping of the tent provided a constant reminder of the wind and snow. It also prevented much conversation so soon we were left with our thoughts, sore muscles and aches.

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At eleven thousand feet in a blizzard it was easy for my mind to turn to the worse case scenario. After all, this was the high Sierras and I knew of the Donner Party who had spent the winter of 1846  half of them perishing in snow more than 20 feet deep. 

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My sleeping bag was rated for 32 degrees, but the cold began to creep in bringing with it the fear of the unknown.

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Still wearing my heavy jacket, my long handles, my Levi’s, and my wool cap pulled down over my eyes to my nose, I unsuccessfully attempted to stay warm.

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My mind began to project the end of our trip. The little tent would be covered with snow so no rescue party could see it. The freezing wind would do its deadly job. We would not be found until the snow would melt in late summer. A search party would find our stiff bodies, carry them down the lonely trail, transport them to our house and then lean them against the wall next to our door, telling our wives, “Here they are. When they thaw out enough, we can have a funeral service.” Then there would be wailing and gnashing of teeth.

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Hours after we had retreated to our limited shelter, I was still awake and my anxiety level was higher than the snow. Every flutter of the tent brought new anxiety. While exhausted, there was no hope for sleep. I tried not to twist and turn too much and disturb Cecil who was suffering with a migraine headache.

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In the darkness and agitation, I recalled, “Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.”

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“Boy,” I thought, “if I had ever been in the valley of the shadow of death, this was it.”

 

Then I began to quote the whole 23rd passage, including the phrase I often missed. As I said it again, a peace began to flow over my mind. I said it again and felt my body relax. 

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Soon, I fell asleep, relaxed in my shepherd’s care.

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As I opened my eyes, I could tell it was daylight but not very bright. The weight of the snow had pushed the tent down so that Cecil and I were mashed back to back. I was warm and comfortable, remembering the encouragement from Ecclesiastes 4:11, “If two lie together, then they have heat: but how can one be warm alone?” 

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I didn’t stay there long because I wanted to see what the storm was doing. I crawled into the snow at the front flap, stood up and saw beautiful blue skies. The clouds were gone. The wind had died. The temperature had dropped lower but we could put on enough clothing to stay warm. 

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I got the little Sterno burner going, melting snow to make tea to go with my Pop Tarts. Cecil was up preparing his coffee, the fragrance drifting over the whole area. We laughed about how the smooth snow had completely hidden our tent. We knew where it was by the hole we had made as we exited.

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We decided that discretion was the better part of valor and that we should return home. 

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We had come to fish so with our packs on our back we headed for the closet lake before we abandoned the high country.

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About a hundred yards from our campsite was a beautiful clear blue lake. The brilliance of the sun reflecting on the still water and snow was almost too much but it was warming to us as we made our first cast.

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Cecil made a “Whoop!” as he hooked a large Golden Trout on his very first try. My second effort resulted in another beauty and my exclamation of joy and excitement. We continued there with unbelievable success. Soon we had our two day limit so we decided we’d release the small ones and keep the large ones.

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It was not noon but we were ready for something to eat. In the shelter of a large granite rock, we fired up our little stove. The trout have a layer of fat to protect them from the cold and it provided us with the cooking oil. Soon a mouth watering fragrance was surrounding us. Another boulder provided a table for our feast. Our cups of joy were full to overflowing as were our stomachs.  

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The ones we devoured brought us below the legal limit, so we detoured to try another lake. It only took a few minutes to replenish our supply. So, we packed the fish in bags of snow headed for the trail. 

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Remembering the looseness of the rocks along the path and the vertical drops to the side, I picked up a relatively straight manzanita stick to strengthen me on the winding, rocky trip.

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At the top of the pass, we stopped to look back. The warming sun was almost overhead. The snow was sparkling all around us. Standing between two tall mountains we looked down upon the emerald lakes surrounded by the copper and green manzanita bushes. We could still taste the indigenous fish that had nourished us. Far off to the left was a little spot without snow where we had laid down for the night. The beauty was planted as a permanent memory for enjoyment many times in the future.

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Though we needed to get down the mountain, there was a hesitancy about leaving. It had become a spiritual place where we had been in the presence of God, my Shepherd, and I wanted to live in his presence forever.

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As I meditated there, I felt I could finally understand that difficult sentence because I had experienced it.

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The Shepherd had restored my soul.

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Psalm 23

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever