Kolob Canyon is a less-seen area in the northern sections of Zion National Park.  There is a small and easily missed sign on the highway indicating a turn-off to a road taking you to this area.  Through the last several years, we’ve come to really enjoy seeing this area during different seasons and different times of the day.  On this particular spring morning, the canyon was shrouded in cloud cover.  Having seen this place many times before, we knew what was behind the clouds even though it couldn’t be seen at that time.  In fact, with the clouds, this place looks quite different from how it really is.  A new-comer, seeing this for the first time, might think he was seeing just a couple of isolated rocks instead of a deep canyon; he is unable to see the depth of the scene.

 

We are fortunate to have some very fine neighbors.  One family, in particular, is just wonderful.  The father is one of the kindest, gentlest leaders I’ve ever known.  The mother is also very warm, friendly, and caring; she taught pre-school to two of my children; they loved her and she loved them.  I know this family’s children less well, but have been impressed with what I have seen.  And yet, it is what I have not seen — what I could not see through my infrequent and brief encounters — that leaves me quite ignorant of who and what these children really are.

 

This past week, I got a better look into the depth of the 28-year-old son, the oldest of these children.  During a 90-minute service, we all learned a great deal about this son.  The dean of a law school where this son worked was extremely eloquent in his description of the impact this son has had upon him and upon others who work at the law school.  An across-the-street neighbor spoke of this boy’s kindness and the brightness in his eyes.  The father spoke of this boy’s devotion to his 2-year-old son and his passion for finding good deals on Craig’s List, and shared some of this boy’s wishes for what we should know: how we should regard our God, and how we should forgive each other.

 

I left that service with a lump in my throat, awash in a flood of thoughts and feelings.  The rest of his family will need time to heal around the edges of the sudden and unexpected hole in their lives, and for this my thoughts, feelings, and prayers are centered on them.  I also left with a realization that there is a depth to this boy that I could not previously see.  My few encounters with him were but glimpses on days when there were clouds preventing me from seeing more deeply and recognizing and understanding.  From what I learned in that service, I would have liked to call him my friend.

 

Several hours after the service, when some of the flares of emotion have faded from scarlet to pink, I find myself in a familiar pattern of finding more application to the lesson learned.  Whether it is places or people, a first glimpse (or even a few infrequent and brief encounters) does not tell us all we could know, understand, and appreciate.  Knowing that there is more than can be seen quickly and easily, I want to know more — more deeply.  Given infinite time, this would be easy.  Given the finite confines of this existence, I have to select more carefully which ones to invest more time into, and which ones will receive only the infrequent and brief encounters.  I have known people with a great gift for making such selections very well.  I can only hope that I will choose well and not find out, after it is too late, that I missed another one that I should not have missed.