I have always loved to ski. When I lived in Oregon, I enjoyed going on guided ski trips that went to undeveloped mountains with slopes not served by ski lifts. On one of these trips, I had a healing experience that showed me that no child of God is limited or controlled by fear.
At the end of a full day of skiing, on the last day of the season, the guides invited us to ski the backside of the mountain that, because of avalanche danger, had been inaccessible the rest of the year. We’d been on challenging runs all day, but they warned that this one would be much harder. Only one of the other ten or so guests accepted, and maybe because I’d been a ski instructor earlier in my life, I felt equal to the challenge and took the plunge as well.
After a few awkward turns and falls, I realized I had misjudged the situation. This part of the mountain was very steep, and the snow was not like the powder we had been on all day. It was rock hard. It felt as if I didn’t know how to ski, and I was attempting the hardest run of the day on the last run of the day—something, as an instructor, I advised people never to do. With the sun going down and 3,000-plus feet of elevation to descend in front of me, there was no turning back. I had to ski, and I had to ski expertly to keep up with the guides.
