It was one of those unplanned adventures that life occasionally gifts you, the kind you never see coming but end up changing you forever. My good friend Byron Foster had suggested it—a rafting trip through the Grand Canyon—and though I hadn’t given it much thought at the time, his enthusiasm was infectious. Before I knew it, I stepped into the adventure of a lifetime, a journey into the heart of one of the most breathtaking creations on Earth for seven days and nights.
The river had stilled, the oars were silent, and we drifted—twenty-eight souls in six rafts, and one soul, suspended between the jagged embrace of the Grand Canyon’s walls and the infinite stretch of heaven above. Earlier that day, we had navigated the tempest of rapids, the Colorado River churning with the raw ferocity of creation itself. But now, at the guide's suggestion, we floated in silence. No words, just the rhythmic pulse of the water, the Canyon whispering its ancient secrets.
The walls around us were cathedral spires of stone, their hues shifting with the sun’s descent—a masterpiece painted in strokes of ochre, vermillion, and shadowed umber. Great boulders, colossal as the shoulders of giants, stood like sentinels, as though placed there to guard the sacred mysteries of the river's course. My mind wandered to a time long past, imagining tribes of Native Americans running the canyon’s labyrinthine trails, storing their harvest in caves impossibly high, as if reaching for heaven itself. Mountain goats perched like guardians on ledges, eagles circled with sovereign grace, and elk moved among the shadows, their forms majestic, yet fleeting. Even the rabbits, small and unassuming, met our gaze with unflinching serenity, as if granting us passage through their home, their sanctuary.
That evening, the river’s echo faded into the background hum of night. Reclining on top of my sleeping bag, I lay beneath a cosmic tapestry so vast it felt as though the universe had peeled back its veil to reveal the face of eternity. The stars—countless, infinite—winked and shimmered like divine hieroglyphs, their meanings too sacred, too vast for mortal minds to comprehend. “The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of His hands” (Psalm 19:1). Each point of light seemed to sing this truth, a symphony of creation’s wonder that demanded not interpretation, but reverent acceptance.
I gazed upward, feeling as if I were peering into the breath of God, inhaling the clarity of the night’s air and exhaling the weight of all that tethered me to the world. The stars weren’t just lights; they were stories, eternal narratives spun by the Creator’s hand. I could only absorb their beauty, letting them wash over my soul like the cool water of the river had earlier that day. This was a mist of mystery and clarity, paradoxically interwoven, inviting me to rest in its embrace. “Be still, and know that I am God,” be meditative, quiet your mind, mindful to listen. (Psalm 46:10).
Yet even amidst this transcendent peace, my mind wandered. How could such tranquility endure? Why does this world, so resplendent with God’s glory, so often feel weighed down by chaos? The answers weren’t written in the stars but whispered within my heart, where faith dwells—a faith taught by Jesus, rooted in grace, sovereignty, and the rhythms of His Beatitudes.
In that moment, I realized this wasn’t just a retreat into nature; it was a sermon, a continuation of God’s teaching. As I lay beneath the galaxy, the blessings of the Beatitudes unfolded within me like the pages of an ancient, sacred text. “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 5:3). In my poverty of spirit, I found an abundance of His grace, the kingdom of heaven tangible even now, in the cool canyon air.
I have known the life of Job—the sting of undeserved setbacks and the weight of deserved consequences. I have wrestled with the anguish of sin and the humility of repentance. Yet, through it all, I have tasted blessings beyond expectation, gifts received not by merit but by grace. This is the paradox of faith: to leap into the unknown with nothing but trust in the One who holds all things together.
Floating silently through the Canyon that day, I began to grasp the prophetic rhythms of the Beatitudes—not as a list of virtues to attain, but as the melody of a life lived perfectly imperfect. It’s a song sung through the human condition, through suffering and joy, through doubt and belief. It’s the sound of the river, the hum of the stars, and the whisper of God calling us to surrender, rest, and trust.
The Grand Canyon was my thin place, where heaven and earth met, and I was reminded that while this peace may not always feel accessible, it is always present. God’s sovereignty reigns, not just in the grandeur of creation but in the quiet corners of my heart, where His grace transforms the chaos of life into a masterpiece. And so I closed my eyes, letting the cool night wrap around me like a benediction, a sacred reminder that, even in the dark, the light of God’s love shines eternal.
“Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation?
Tell me, if you understand.
Who marked off its dimensions? Surely you know!
Who stretched a measuring line across it?
On what were its footings set,
or who laid its cornerstone—
while the morning stars sang together
and all the angels shouted for joy?
Who shut up the sea behind doors
when it burst forth from the womb,
when I made the clouds its garment
and wrapped it in thick darkness,
when I fixed limits for it
and set its doors and bars in place,
when I said, ‘This far you may come and no farther;
here is where your proud waves halt’?
Have you ever given orders to the morning,
or shown the dawn its place,
that it might take the earth by the edges
and shake the wicked out of it?
The earth takes shape like clay under a seal;
its features stand out like those of a garment.
The wicked are denied their light,
and their upraised arm is broken.
Have you journeyed to the springs of the sea
or walked in the recesses of the deep?
Have the gates of death been shown to you?
Have you seen the gates of the deepest darkness?
Have you comprehended the vast expanses of the earth?
Tell me, if you know all this." Job 38:4–18 (NIV)
And then, as the stars seemed to lean closer, as if whispering a secret, the truth of my faith filled my heart with quiet joy. Jesus came to show me the door to all of this—to invite me not just to marvel at creation but to live fully within it. He loved me enough to step into this world, to walk its dusty roads, to bear its sorrows, and to die upon a cross so that I might not only see this beauty but carry it within me. His sacrifice flung the gates of eternity wide open, offering me a journey into the fullness of life—here, now, and forever.
This journey is not fleeting, like a passing sunset or a momentary glance at the stars. It is eternal, woven into the fabric of God’s love, secured by the blood of Christ. As I lay there, wrapped in the cool night air and the song of the Canyon, I understood that this beauty was but a glimpse—a foretaste—of what awaits in the unending presence of God. Jesus came to show me that this majesty, this wonder, this breathtaking awe, was not just something to witness but something to embrace. He is the way, the truth, and the life—the door to a journey that transcends time, reaching into eternity itself.
And so, beneath the vast expanse of stars and the towering walls of the Canyon, I rested in the assurance that I belong to this wonder, and it belongs to me—not because I earned it, but because He loved me enough to give it. My soul, like the river winding through the Canyon, flows ever onward toward the infinite, carried by the grace of the One who created it all.