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It’s basically the footprint of water. 

Each time I return to my beloved mountains of Colorado, I visit the Rocky Mountain National Park Alluvial Fan.  For the average tourist, it’s not much to see.  Compared with the windswept mountains and the majestic elk and the great arching higher-than-holy sky, it’s only a collection of rocks. 

There’s a steep mountainside, over which the Roaring River tumbles, squirming through a crevice, then washing away across the flat expanse of meadow below—Horseshoe Park, it’s called.  And down the mountainside, on and in and around the river, are rocks, a great barrage of them, as if some giant hand had opened and poured marbles down the slope. 

It’s odd, this swath of stone, rocks marking their own trail down the hillside.  They look like a mystery, or a failed building project, but they’re actually a reminder of a great tragedy.  On July 15, 1982, a sanitation truck driver was traveling through the National Park campground in Horseshoe Park when he heard a loud roaring noise that he couldn’t pinpoint.  Then, he saw an entire uprooted ponderosa pine crashing down the river.  Frantic, he called park headquarters from an emergency phone, then used his truck to block unaware visitors from entering the area.

That roaring sound was the onslaught of water—the aftermath from the failed Lawn Lake Dam upstream.  In one terrifying day, 30 million cubic feet of water submerged the landscape.  Horseshoe Park was completely flooded, and three visitors to the park were killed.  The flood wasn’t done yet, though; it merged with Fall River, on the opposite side of Horseshoe Park, and left the town of Estes Park drowning in six feet of water.  The damages cost $31 million, the devastation was complete, and the landscape struggled to recover.  And as Roaring River, swollen with runoff, pounded down this mountainside, it carried the boulders with it, leaving them behind when the waters receded.

Today, Horseshoe Park is mostly dry, except for a few marshy areas that provide the perfect habitat for moose.  Trees have sprouted again, and the river obeys its banks.  But the rocks remain. 

They’re actually quite beautiful.  Most are granite, fired by upheaval deep in the womb of the earth.  Some are a sharp black-and-white, folds swirled in the stone.  Some have light pink flakes, the confetti of rose quartz trapped inside.  All are sharp to the touch, rough and bumpy, yet all sparkle in the sunlight like fairy stones.  And the rocks are not only lovely; they also boast a high degree of traction.  In dry weather and decent boots, walking or climbing on granite is relatively slip-proof. 

And climbing is why most people, myself included, visit the Alluvial Fan.  It’s possible to struggle over, around, and through all those boulders, working one’s way up the hillside.  The process is known as rock scrambling, and despite its inglorious name, it’s surprisingly challenging yet enjoyable at the same time, requiring not only strength and agility but also a great deal of strategy. 

At the end of the Alluvial Fan scramble—the end of the designated route, but by no means the end of the boulder field—is the crowning challenge, a truly massive boulder—more like a rock cliff, at least thirty feet high.  It sits next to the river like a king, its smaller subjects of rocks paying homage all around.  It too is granite—and it seems designed for climbing. 

I’ve conquered its slopes many times by now, exulting in the challenge during my every visit to the Rockies.  But I remember on my first visit that I was scared.  I remember that I doubted my abilities.  I remember that the rock face seemed very high and the risk of falling onto the rocks below very great.  I also remember that if it hadn’t been for the desire to conceal my fear and appear far braver than I truly was, I would never have agreed when my dad proposed we climb the rock together. 

The first part was easy—well, not easy, but simple.  A leap, a bracing of the hands, and then my feet found the ledge, a few horizontal inches creeping around the side of the rock.  I shuffled along, working my way to the righthand side.  Then another crevice appeared, just above that one.  Pressing myself sideways into the rock, my outstretched arms clinging to its stone in the embrace of a climber, I moved up. 

I remember a few other details.  I remember that the granite was painfully sharp against my sweating hands, but it was also firm and stable.  My boots had good traction on its uneven surface.  I remember that it was very windy that day, which didn’t help in the least.  I also remember that, ironically, I was wearing a bracelet that read simply “Courage.” 

Which I was about to need.

I was feeling rather proud of myself as I inched my way along the narrow edges.  And then I reached the top section of the rock—and it seemed that all options ended.

There I was, clinging to the side of this monolith, tiptoes squeezed onto a crevice, fingers tucked into cracks.  The thin strip of rock I’d been trusting had died away into nothing.  I craned my neck up—slowly and carefully, fighting vertigo—only to see that I was a paltry few yards from the top, and it seemed there was no way to get there.

I was ready to give up.  My dad, however, insisted that there was a way—a very obvious one, according to him.  He pointed out that I could move upwards on my hands and knees to a series of footholds—or what he called footholds—that would undoubtedly take me to the top.  Easy, he assured me.  Very easy.

Still trying to keep up the appearance of bravado, I stalled, pretending to examine the route.  Actually, I thought he was crazy.  Crawling across an exposed rock face on my hands and knees sounded like a suicide wish.  And the footholds he referred to were barely indentions in the rock.  They looked unreliable.  Precarious.  Not at all what I wanted to trust. 

So there I was.  Trapped.  Stuck.  Unwilling to trade the illusion of safety—albeit immobility—for the danger of the proposed escape.  I closed my eyes and pictured myself losing my grip, pictured my boot sliding even half an inch, and envisioned myself dropping through empty space toward the boulder field below. 

No.  I couldn’t take the risk.  So I was frozen—unable to go back, unwilling to go forward.

My dad assured me that the footholds would support me.  He reminded me that even if I fell, he, being behind me, would catch me.  (I remained skeptical that he would truly be able to do so while also hanging off a vertical rock face.)  He promised me that I was quite capable of performing this feat.

And so, very carefully, heart pounding, “Courage” bracelet screaming at me, I crawled forward to the footholds.  I pressed my palms into the granite, ignoring the sharp edges.  I braced myself, I asked him one final time for reassurance, and I fought to keep the empty space out of my peripheral vision.  And I moved my boot forward onto that foothold. 

I truly didn’t expect a miracle.  I didn’t expect to be able to summit the rock.  I expected to go sliding right back down, hopefully into my dad’s arms.  But to my astonishment, the foothold was actually much deeper and firmer than it had appeared from below.  Yes, the slope was steep, but I could manage it.  One foot and then the other, I struggled upwards.  And in less than fifteen minutes, I was standing with my dad on top of the rock, where we bragged about our accomplishment, enjoyed the amazing view, and took far too many selfies.

I truly didn’t expect a miracle.  I didn’t expect to be able to summit the rock.  I expected to go sliding right back down, hopefully into my dad’s arms.  But to my astonishment, the foothold was actually much deeper and firmer than it had appeared from below.  Yes, the slope was steep, but I could manage it.  One foot and then the other, I struggled upwards.  And in less than fifteen minutes, I was standing with my dad on top of the rock, where we bragged about our accomplishment, enjoyed the amazing view, and took far too many selfies.

“Courage” bracelet aside, I don’t see myself as a person of immeasurable faith.  I’ve never been able to remain unflappable in the midst of pain, or discouragement, or seeming defeat.  I don’t take great risks and I don’t gamble on the unknown and I rarely make any decision without the chattering of fear in my head.  And that day on the Alluvial Fan, I didn’t have any more faith than normal.  I only had just enough faith to put my foot in a scratch on a rock because there was no other way.  That’s not sterling confidence.  But that rock was strong.  The little amount of faith I had in it didn’t affect its power.  And because I had just that tiny grain of faith, and because that rock was just that strong, I am here today.

Faith can be a scary word for Christians.  After all, we never believe we have enough.  Faith makes us think of trumpet tones, of bold believers ordering mountains to step aside, of Daniel in the lions’ den and Gideon leading his tiny army and Peter casting out demons.  It makes us think of the believers today who resolutely face illness, persecution, abandonment, and even martyrdom.  We turn from these scenes to gaze at our daily struggles—complaining kids, irritable spouse, dead-end job, malfunctioning car, looming bills—and we shrink inside.  Surely we lack faith—how could we survive the attacks of Hell or the persecution of the world if we cringe at the circumstances in our mundane days?

If that’s you today, I have good news.  Yes, we all lack faith at times, but the efficacy of God does not depend on our faith.

Did you catch that?  Faith is for our benefit, not God’s.  Faith makes our spirit stronger, but it doesn’t increase God’s power.  Faith makes us more willing to pray for impossible things, but it doesn’t make it easier for God to answer our requests.  Faith gives us assurance in God’s will when we face disease, but it’s not a prerequisite for God to heal us.  The ups and downs of our faith do not correspond with fluctuations in the power of God.  They only alter how we view Him.

Now, don’t get me wrong:  the Bible is clear that unbelief can hinder the work of the Lord.  (Check out my blog post on that topic.)  However, unbelief is far darker than the mere absence of faith; it’s the stubborn, hardhearted insistence on disregarding God’s leading or discarding His promises.  It’s the polar opposite of faith, and so yes, when faced with our unbelief, God may choose to remove His working from our life in whole or in part.  However, faith—no matter how weak or small—invites God’s Presence into our situation.  And since God “does not give the Spirit by measure” (John 3:34b NKJV), the tiniest coal of faith is just as effective as a raging fire.

If you don’t believe me, just consider the story related in Mark 9.  A desperate father with a demon-possessed son begs Jesus’ disciples for help.  Despite their best efforts, however, the apostles can’t cast out the demon.  When Jesus approaches the group, the distraught father beseeches Him:   “If you can do anything, have compassion on us and help us” (v. 22b).

“If you can do anything…”  No faith there.  That if is a closed door.  Jesus gently reminds the man of his need for faith:  “‘If you can’! All things are possible for one who believes” (v. 23b).  In response, the father cries out, “I believe; help my unbelief!” (v. 24b)

Sometimes it takes faith to realize that we don’t have enough faith.

This man wasn’t a strong believer.  He wasn’t a mega-spiritualist or a super-saint.  He had just enough faith to ask for Jesus’ help—just enough faith, in fact, to realize he needed more.  But that one tiny speck of faith was enough.  And in front of a skeptical crowd, disillusioned disciples, and a man grasping at straws, Jesus casts out the demon.

Perhaps that is why Jesus promised His disciples that faith no bigger than a grain of mustard seed could move mountains (Matthew 17:20 KJV).  Because you see, the amount of faith we have is irrelevant.  What matters is the character of Whom we have placed our faith in.  And because He is mighty, our faith is also mighty.

I had very little faith on the Alluvial Fan that day.  I had just enough faith to put my foot on that rock and see what happened.  But because that rock was firm and unwavering, that was all the faith I needed.

And throughout my life, that’s often been the extent of my meager faith—close my eyes, hold my breath, and take that one step.  And see what happens.  And each time I have truly stepped out into the calling of God, I’ve never, not once, been disappointed.  God has graciously overlooked my fears, my foibles, my insecurities.  He hasn’t demanded that I be a giant of belief or that I loudly proclaim my trust in Him.  He has only asked for just enough faith to take that first step of obedience.  And when I’ve taken that first step, I’ve never failed to feel Courage surging through my soul, and I’ve remembered what I always knew—the greatest blessings spring from the tiniest seed of faith.

Did you enjoy this post? Do you have a story of faith fulfilled? Let me know in the comments!