I lay in a cold wet puddle as the wind ripped around me. I felt pitiful. I had been trying to fall asleep for a long time but the wind violently jostled my tent and whipped around the sides in a clamor. In addition, the sky every so often let out thunderous cries as lightning streaked across the sky. Unlike with my previous experience out on the sand dunes of White Sands National Monument in New Mexico, here I was protected from lightning with the towering Guadalupe mountains standing nearby, and I had the waterproof fly on my tent which I thought would keep me dry. It was just the noise and the way my tent was dancing in the wind that was keeping me up. Then, as the wind picked up and the clouds broke loose holding nothing back, the fly of my tent was ripped off and the rain poured into my tent.
There’s no use going out to retrieve the tent fly, I thought, It’s probably long gone, flailing out in the wind off in the distance. I pulled my sleeping bag over my head. It was thick. Maybe it will keep me dry until the storm passes.
But the storm wouldn’t pass. It only grew more and more intense. It was undoubtedly a North American monsoon. With intense solar heating in this region of the country during the day, winds shift and low pressure troughs are created bringing in moisture from the Gulf of Mexico and gifting the desert with torrential rainstorms.
For future reference, a sleeping bag is not enough to keep you dry from a Monsoon. Water began to soak through my sleeping bag, and it was cold. I curled up keeping my limbs close to the rest of my body to preserve heat. My car was parked about thirty yards away. This was a walk-in campsite. I couldn’t easily get to my car without being fully inundated with the cold relentless sheets of rain, and if I were to go to my car, I’d have to bring everything of value I had with me in my tent, because likely my tent would be ripped away in the wind.
I was going to wait this out. Then with a fierce whip of wind, my tent came collapsing down upon me. The wind completely snapped a tent pole. Minutes later I was shivering in the fetal position in a puddle of water. This was pitiful. Cinematically I could picture this moment in my mind. The camera ascending upward facing downward revealing the image of a man contracted in a puddle of rain water and the water continuing to pour down. I’d look so helpless… but I wasn’t. I grabbed my backpack and was feeling around the layers of cold wet collapsed tent to find the zipper of the tent door. Then with a mad dash, through piercingly cold sheets of rain, I made it to my car. I turned the heat up high and cupped my hands around the vents. I was gonna be ok.
My pillow and sleeping bag were soaked and had been abandoned in the tent. But I had a spare sleeping bag in the backseat. I peeled off my wet clothes, and climbed over the front seat to the back where I pulled down the seat to access the trunk. I retrieved some dry clothes to put on, and I pushed a sweatshirt and other articles of clothes up into the corner of the back seat to great a place to rest my head.
This was not the type of camping I imagined doing this summer. I longed for the dry, star filled nights, with cracking fires, and a peaceful quietude, where cares were long forgotten and my mind and body at ease. Here I was crunched up in a small car as the monsoon raged on.
In the moment this was all meaningless to me. I had embarked on this trip not only to enjoy the scenery and recreation but to also be inspired and hear from God. I have often found inspiration in nature. The previous year God illuminated the canyonlands to show me he could transform the deep dark places of my life. He also inspired me to be unwavering in life’s challenges. I came to moments of deep realization and inspiration by pondering ghost towns and mountain peaks. But this monsoon was a nuisance, void of meaning to me. And in regard to inspiration, this whole trip so far seemed like a failure.
However, I was quick to forget the miraculous incident at Chiricahua when locking my keys in the car. Not only did God deliver me from my circumstances but he told me, “Be Still. Be Calm. Don’t worry.” But now, here, in the literal storms of life, I had placed this off to the side of my mind, forgetting about it and becoming inundated with the negativity around me.
Sometimes we can only find the meaning in situations when we look back on them. There is meaning here. In life we face figurative storms that are in a whole other category than this summer monsoon. These storms of life are painful with suffering, loss, anger, change, and doubt. How often do we let the storms of life distract us from what God has promised us and what he is teaching us? We are quick to focus on the present suffering instead of focusing on what we know about God, what God has taught us in our lives, and all the promises he has made.
Scripture is flooded with promises of God helping his people in times of trial. We can read these and be reassured and find peace, but even greater confidence is found when we consider all the times these promises in scripture have played out in our lives. As followers of Christ we see the scripture come alive in our lives as God carries us through hard times.
I reflect back when I was a freshman in college battling depression and insecurity about my faith. After spending so much time in an unhealthy church where fellow “Christians” treated each other combatively, I began to question God’s goodness and even existence. Then in my own quiet time I came across James 1, “Consider it pure joy my brothers whenever you face trials of many kinds, for you know the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete not lacking anything.” In the trial of my faith in God himself, God began to reveal himself to me through a series of answered prayers and strength in the midst of my weakness. In a note to a God I thanked Him for doing good things in my life. I asked that I would always feel Him near, and I asked that He would give me a heart of worship. God, in the most miraculous way, answered me through Jeremiah 32:40 “I will make an everlasting covenant with you, promising to never stop doing good things for you. I will instill in you a heart of worship, and you will never leave me.”
In the storms of life, I am prone to be the pessimist, letting my thoughts snowball out of control, thinking things can only get worse and speculating my doom, but then I remember this promise: God will never stop doing good things for me. After speaking to me in that moment, God set me on a path of healing. He brought a dear friend and spiritual mentor into my life. Together we held onto the verse Romans 8:28. It was our verse. “For we know that all things work together for good for those who love God and have been called according to his purpose.”
Other substantial storms in my life have had to do with my health, between ulcerative colitis, Pancreatitis, and all the challenges they have brought, I’ve clung onto my life in the most desperate of ways in the most excruciating pain and loneliness. During this time a harmony of verses was cemented in my mind “After you have suffered a while, the God of grace Himself, whose knowledge surpasses all understanding, will restore you and make you strong.” Also with diagnosis looking grim, God laid before me many times Jeremiah 29:11 “‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the LORD, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’” As a feeble young man, hospitalized, making my way down the hallway with my walker, this verse again jumped out to me inscribed on the wall. Not only was it a promise in scripture but I know God was directly promising it to me. When health challenges return and I question the future I have to remind myself of these promises.
And then years later there was my drive to the doctor’s office. All they could tell me on the phone is that there were abnormalities in my blood work. I knew something was wrong. I feared for the challenges ahead. My mind flashbacked to the nights in college of rolling around on the floor in so much pain that my mind couldn’t even formulate thoughts. And I began to consider all the sleepless nights in which I always had to keep moving. Movement was the only distraction from pain. I couldn’t bear this again, I thought. As I was driving on my way to the doctor’s office God spoke to me saying,”never again will you go through the pain you’ve endured.”
I’d soon find myself in a battle with lupus and a relapse of ulcerative colitis. Miserable, yes, but physically painful, no. God spared me. When medicines fail, when blood work is out of range, I remember, “never again.” God promised me. And He’s also said He has “promised me hope, and a future,” He also “will never stop doing good things for me,” and He “will restore me and make me strong.”
When you encounter life’s storms are you quick to imagine the worst? Do you wallow in the suffering, doubt the prospects of your future, or even begin to feel like you’ve fallen away from God’s grace? Although this may be a natural human response, we can change it. When faced with the monsoons of life, pause. What has God taught you in life’s prior challenges and deliverances? What has He promised to you? Contrast your own worries and concern verses what you know to be true.
One of my favorite musical artists, Steven Curtis Chapman, in his song “Remember to Remember” sings of just that. We have to remember what God has led us through previously. He’s led us through the canyonlands and to mountain peaks. What has He taught you along the way?
A life with God has nothing wasted. Your story is a part of God’s story. He uses your past to prove himself and his character. Next time a storm rolls in, my hope is that you don’t camp out in the monsoon, but pause and take inventory of promises you know to be true. If you’ve never heard God’s voice, may you begin to seek it and begin to start a life with Him. Only then you will realize you are equipped and empowered, not just cold wet and crunched up in the backseat of a car.
Read my previous episode “The Mystique of Carlsbad Caverns,” here: https://joshthehodge.com/2020/02/08/the-mystique-of-carlsbad-caverns/
Check out my new book “Canyonlands: My Adventures in the National Parks and the Beautiful Wild,” here:
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1711397873/ref=cm_sw_em_r_mt_dp_U_UjGjEbYBGF4PR
Eventually, after a brief moment of uncertainty, I arrived in Santa Elena Canyon where giant cliffs forming the canyon walls measure 1,500 feet. Here one cliffside is Mexico and the other is the United States of America, and the Rio Grande flows in a murky pale brown in between. On the U.S. side, about halfway down the cliff faces, rock erodes leaving piles and a bar alongside the river where trees and other plant life grow. This is where the established trail is found. 
The visit to Santa Elena Canyon was near the end of my day’s adventure. This morning I ventured out in my car to travel the whole expanse of the park and get a sampling of all it has to offer. I first stopped at the Fossil Discovery Exhibit. I learned all about the terrain and dinosaurs that used to live in this shallow sea. I even got my picture with a cask of the 
I observed the remnants of the old post office and bath house that used to stand on site. On the half mile hike to the hot spring, I got hit with an overwhelming sense of insecurity and uneasiness. I felt like I was being watched. Something was not right. Then, next to the trail, I came upon a grouping of small Mexican animal figurines “alebrijes” standing on the ground by a plastic jar with a slit cut in the top for money collection. 
When I crossed the expanse of the park and was nearing the West end to visit Santa Elena Canyon I stopped at 
My final stop before venturing into the canyon was a
Leaving the lodge I drove Park Road 3A, also known as the Skyline 
Four miles from the State Park is Fort Davis National Historic Site- a unit of the National Park Service. It actually attaches to the State Park by a trail, but I didn’t have the time to hike there and back. I didn’t know why there would need to be a fort out here in seemingly the middle of nowhere Texas, but I would learn, and I was excited. Any unit of the National Park Service interests and excites me. All of the National Park Service’s sites tell one big story, the narrative of the United States of America. At each one I see my eyes opened to moments in history I didn’t know, and not only do I obtain the knowledge, but being in the actual place where these events took place, and seeing them with my own eyes, helps me imagine and obtain a greater depth of relation to the events. I love it!
Today exploring the park is really stepping back in time to a unique era. The Park Service has preserved and restored many of the buildings. This fort is not what we typically think of as a fort. There is no man made barrier of a wall with artillery and cannons sticking out. Rather it is a series of buildings aligned in a giant rectangle around a common green. The fort is in a large canyon, protected naturally by wide canyon walls and Limpia Creek. 
The main attraction of the park is walking in and out of many of the buildings which are furnished to the era. I walked into the barracks. Fourteen beds lined the walls one after another. Apart from a bed, the soldiers were only allowed a few hooks to hang their clothes and a small shelf situated above their beds. In the middle of the building stood a series of coal furnaces. This was very simple. I tried to put myself in the place of the soldiers and imagine what they came “home” to at night. 
Leaving Fort Davis National Historic Park, I was well pleased. I learned a lot of history. I 
As I waited for my food, I couldn’t help but observe those around me. A group of ladies were in a booth eating together and talking back and forth. They switched from Spanish to English constantly, replacing with seemingly no notable method, certain words with their other language counterpart. A middle-aged man with a cowboy hat, flannel patterned shirt, boots and a grey mustache (everything stereotypical of a cowboy) sat down to order his food. To my surprise he ordered his food perfectly and casually in Spanish. Keepin’ it truly real, from my perspective, a middle-aged white man with a cowboy hat back home in Kentucky would be the least suspected of speaking Spanish. This was not the case here. Spanish and English were truly blended together, and latino rancheros and caucasian cowboys came together with no barrier of language nor culture, no ill-will towards one another, just neighborly friendliness. They were simply gathering over good food. 
It was a new, peculiar, and patriot moment for me to read the sign above the highway stating “Welcome to the United States.” My visit to Ciudad Juárez is a tale to be further unpacked at another time. I was glad I went, but I was so grateful to be back home and ready to continue on with my U.S. National Park adventure. 
The road wound through countryside and slithered among mountains. At one point I came to a overlook where I looked down across the grasslands and the mountains. In the distance, over the mountains, it was storming. I could see the dark clouds and rain contrasting with a golden sun that was peeking out from the corner of the sky. The contrast in the sky, brought about contrast in the land between the deep greens of the scattered trees to the accents of golden grass.
I could sense the arid land giving off a sigh of relief for the rain that would soon arrive. A could feel the tension released in the air. As I continued on my drive, a parade of javelinas jumped a stone wall, scurried across the road, and leaped into the wild grass and brush. These creatures look like wild boar, and although javelina is the same name given to a wild boar in Spanish, these javelinas are peccaries, and unlike boars are native to the Americas. But combine the savanna with a javelina, and the fact I hadn’t seen a business for hundreds of miles, and you could have fooled me to thinking I was out and about somewhere in the African savanna and I’d be prone to see a zebra, or a lion.
Except for the one elderly couple who asked me for directions at the drop box, whom I couldn’t assist with any knowledge, I didn’t see any other people on my way to the lodge. This place was very quiet.
Rustic, beautiful, charming. An old stone fireplace stood with an extending stone hearth. The walls were white abode, the ceiling wooden logs, the furniture hand made of cedar, some original historic pieces from the 1930s. The lamps here and there gave off a warm and homey glow. A rocking chair stood next to the fireplace and in front of the wood framed window with the bright orange sunset. The window on the opposite side was tucked into its own nook where a desk and chair stood, as if looking out intrigued by the view of a tree reaching out its branches. And the bed in the middle was adorned with a beautiful lacework comforter and a blanket depicting running horses and geometric designs, looking like a true piece of native craftsmanship of the area. 
Also pertaining this this vibe was this true lodge feel. Back in the early days of park lodges, arriving at a lodge was sometimes an accomplishment in and of itself. Long horseback rides or wagon trips through challenging terrains would finally lead one to a lodge of comfort and peace. Same situation today. A long and isolated journey through very remote roads to the middle of nowhere, brought me to the Indian Lodge, and the lodge was the only thing here. There was nowhere else to go this evening. This was it. The lodge was its own oasis. Everyone staying at the lodge had nowhere to be but at the lodge. We all had to make comfort and do with our own limited amenities and food. And without distraction, we all shared the sunset together, the maze of the abode structure, and each other’s own company. Although this place was isolated, and it was quiet, I was not the only one here. I believe there was a wedding party staying at the lodge. Clues of confetti, signs, and gatherings of multi-aged people, led me to this assumption.
After dropping off my bags in my room, I peacefully explored this village of a structure. The clouds had melted away and the sky above was a calm darkening blue. Going from one adobe island to another from and one terrace and courtyard to another, I sat and enjoyed the remainder of the sunset and listened to the water trickling at a courtyard fountain. I also explored inside. The common indoor area was constructed with beautiful woodwork, old western chandeliers, nooks and crannies to sit and relax, and a small statue and area honoring the work on the Civilian Conservation Corps. I. Loved. This. Place. 
I was greeted with a colorful mural depicting important moments in Mexican-American history and aspects of Mexican culture. Upon opening the door I was welcomed in Spanish by a National Park Service employee. It was an elderly Latina lady with grey hair, a friendly smile, and an aura of a traditional abuelita. She didn’t reveal that she spoke English, so we just continued in Spanish. I explained this was my first time visiting the memorial. She got up from here chair, enthused yet composed, and explained that there was a museum and film. She guided me over to a rack of brochures where she proceeded to fill my hands with brochures of other National Park units in Texas and neighboring New Mexico. She was funny. I liked her. She authoritatively but sweetly was telling me what I needed to see and what I needed to do. She was a culmination of Mexican hospitality and West Texas friendliness. I thanked her and proceeded to take in the museum. I was fascinated.
I left the museum to check out the small city park out back. There was a group of students perhaps on a field trip. I sought the post marking the prior land border between the two nations. I took a picture of it and then fixed my eyes on my surroundings. There was a bridge encased in fencing. A sign stuck up in the center of it declaring “Bienvenidos a Mexico.” I watched the vehicles flow and back up at the border. Then i noticed the business men walking across the border with their briefcases, returning home from a day in the office in another nation. Then I noticed others so informally coming across the bridge. Was is this easy? My curiosity was sparked. This was supposed to be an all-American National Park road trip, but maybe a side trip to Mexico could add a little spice to the slice. I had to go back in the museum and inquire. I found my little abuelita.
Josh Hodge blog 