Keep Looking Up

What 294 Steps Taught Me About Fears, Faith, & the Journey

It was a Friday afternoon. Day 3 of our 6-day family vacation in Boston. We finished up the tour of the USS Constitution and headed back on the Freedom Trail towards the Bunker Hill Monument in Charlestown.

Our vacation was six beautiful days filled with history, delicious food, Red Sox baseball, gorgeous architecture, Boston vernacular (i.e., Green Monsta, the Harbah, Wicked Smart), festivals, a boat parade, unexpected blessings…and one unexpected lesson involving 294 steps that Friday afternoon at the Bunker Hill Monument.

It started at the base of the monument. A park ranger was speaking to a small crowd seated and standing around. We joined to listen to the history of what took place at Bunker Hill.

We then ventured inside the museum building and took in all that it showcased. There was a display that showed the 360-degree views from the top of the monument. We played with that for a while before we followed the flow of the museum crowd and joined a line that appeared to exit through a door to the outside before entering another door to the actual monument. We listened to the people in front of us answer questions of the park ranger manning the door. Once he let the family in front of us leave, he stopped us and chatted with us for a bit.

My husband asked him, “What do we get to see or do in the monument?”

We assumed that it was just a small area we’d be able to enter to maybe see a small part of the inside of the monument. We were confident that no one was allowed to go to the top of it.

“Go to the top!” the park ranger said excitedly.

Before I could process what that meant, the park ranger said, “Okay, y’all can go.”

Off we went, surprised that we were going to go to the top of this monument…whatever that meant.

Our daughter and youngest son, both members of & regular attendees at The Yard Gym, took off first up the steps. It was a spiraling concrete staircase with no real air flow. Although I have never been in a dungeon or castle staircase, this is what I would imagine such a staircase would look and feel like. I lost sight of our kids, but my husband was right behind me.

“Got to the top!”

Isn’t that often how life works? We think we’re just sightseeing. We think we’re just going through an ordinary season. Everything is chill, and then suddenly…BAM…you are thrown into something that looks daunting and gets even more daunting with each step.

Speaking of steps, there was a marking in the concrete indicating how many steps you were at, in increments of 25. At the 25-step mark, I had to take off the backpack I forgot I was carrying.

At the 50-step mark, I handed the backpack to my husband behind me, and I remember saying, “I won’t be able to go on carrying this.” I noticed my husband’s face covered in beads of sweat like mine. It was also at this point that I started to really feel my heart working hard. I wondered if he was feeling his doing that, too. We are both under the care of cardiologists.

“Are we okay to do this?” I thought to myself.

“Of course we are okay,” another thought confidently whispered to me. “Our latest doctor appointments were great, and like our kids, we’ve been working out regularly at our own gym. A few months ago, we might not be able to do this, but today, we are good to go!” I felt my muscles flex in agreement.

I turned back towards the steps and went up to Step 75. I was struggling to catch a breath, so I would stop, gripping the small silver handrail along one side of the winding concrete wall, and try to catch a breath. Sometimes I did, sometimes I didn’t. This was when I also felt anxiety kicking in as well as intrusive thoughts.

“You’re afraid of heights. If you have a medical episode here, no medical assistance will be able to get to you in time. What if something happens to your husband? How will you or anyone be able to help him?” And so on.

“Go ahead of us. We’re going to be a while,” we’d tell people coming up behind us.

But we kept going. At 100 steps, I breathily-and a bit panickily-asked my husband, “How many steps to the top?” He breathily responded, “294.”

I told my husband to give me the backpack. We could take turns. But he would tell me, “No, I’m fine.” I was worried about him, but he was worried about me.

At step 125, I could hear our daughter’s voice from up yonder somewhere, “You’re almost there! Not much further!”

She’s always been a great encourager…and a good liar.

It was at step 150 that both my husband and I wondered if it would be best if we just turned around and called it a day. The funny part is that neither of us outwardly voiced that thought. Maybe because we had stopped talking to keep as much breath as we could from continuing to escape our bodies on this climb. Plus, we probably wouldn’t be able to hear each other over the sound of our pounding heart.

Our daughter had already been to the top and was now making her descent. She met us somewhere between step 150 and 175, and she took the backpack from my husband’s hands.

That helped…a little.

Step 175 was a blur. I think we saw our son also pass us on his descent to join his sister at the bottom and patiently wait for their parents. They were silently worried about us, too.

The other tricky part of this climb is that there are people going up while people are also coming down. So, someone must let go of the rail to let the other person pass up or down. Sometimes, I would let go of the rail and there was nothing to cling to on the other side of this staircase. Plus, the steps get even more shallow on that side. “Don’t get vertigo. Don’t fall.” was another thought that spoke in my head. The thought of falling down the steps brought back that initial thought of “medical assistance wouldn’t be able to get to you in time.”

Step 200. Only 94 to go.

Jokes! Humor! That’s what I need to focus on, I thought! I gave it a try…

“This just might be where you die. Wouldn’t that be funny?”

Nope. Humor was not working.

While trying to be clever with my internal jokes, I missed Step 225 and saw 250!

Okay, now we’re talking! “We can do this, Daddy!” (Yes, I call my husband “Daddy.”) I still don’t think I was verbalizing anything, but I did check to make sure my husband was still behind me.  He was.

We’re either going to do this together or die together! Here we go!

Step 294 brought us to the small room with 4 small windows to look out at the gorgeous views all around Boston. However, we bypassed the views and could only see the bench.

Thank God there was a bench!

We parked ourselves on the bench and breathed in our triumph! Okay, we were basically just trying to breathe in. There was a defibrillator on the wall, so that brought some comfort and confidence I had been lacking the entire climb.

A family entered behind us, and I realized that the more people in this small space, the hotter it was getting, even more so than in the stairwell. I was feeling a bit claustrophobic, and the anxiety started to well up once again. But my focus on me was interrupted by the sweet, honest young boy that entered the small pinnacle space with his family.

“This is IT?” His blunt disappointment at the climax of his journey was relatable.

However, it was then that I realized that with all the internal conversations, the voices I was having on the climb, not once was it with God.

What if something happens?

What if I fall?

What if my husband needs help?

What if I can't do this?

What if medical help can't reach me?

What if I hold up traffic with my pace?

Why weren’t there signs warning climbers with conditions?

What if…what if…what if…why?

But not once was I talking to God.

I didn’t include Him in my self-talk, even though He was right there with me.

So, while at the top of the monument, I stopped focusing so much on me and turned my glance upward, thanking God for the journey, and for the present moment and every step along the way. I also turned my focus towards others in the room like the young family.

“This is IT?” the young boy asked again.

We chuckled at his question, because it was comical—but also profound.

We can spend our entire lives climbing toward something we think will finally satisfy us.

And then we get there and say:

“This is it?”

After chatting a bit with the young family and taking photos of the views, my husband and I were ready to make our way down the stairs!

It was going down that my knees had their own conversation with me. I was so focused on trying to survive the going up that I forgot that I have had knee and leg injuries for the past year that have kept me in the orthopedist and physical therapy offices instead of on the tennis court. My husband has his own knee issues, too. Our legs were wobbly upon stepping off the last step, but from what we could overhear, so were everyone else’s. It was nice not to be alone with our wobbliness!

When we got out of the monument, we strutted towards our kids like the climb was no big thing for us. Piece of cake. We laughed. They looked relieved to see us.

“But they should really have a medical sign of sorts explaining what to expect for those with medical conditions,” I said with concern.

“They did! It was a big sign at the first step. It was the first thing you saw before climbing,” our kids said.

I didn’t see it nor did my husband. Maybe that was a good thing. We probably would’ve excused ourselves. And it was a journey we both ended up needing and enjoying.

Isn’t that just like life sometimes? We forge ahead without paying attention to the signs. I know I do! I’ll plow headfirst into a situation without taking the time to look around, prepare, or simply pay attention. This Bunker Hill journey is a prime example.

However, if you asked the four of us what the journey meant to us, I’m sure you’d get four different answers. That’s typical of any life experience. It’s personal and unique to each of us.

My story of this trek MIGHT be a fishing story in the making where some element may be “growing” or embellished for dramatic or comical purposes. But for now, ladies and gentlemen, the story you have read is true. No names or details have been changed to protect the innocent. (Who remembers the old television show that started each episode with a version of this reference?)

But seriously, I know people have done way harder things. I mean, people have climbed Mount Everest…a heck of a lot more than 294 steps to accomplish that feat. People have endured enormous personal struggles more ominous than 294 steps. Struggles that stop us in our tracks and make us wonder if we should turn back or muster the strength to keep going.

The monument-al climb (see what I did there? LOL!) gave me more than a story to tell. It gave me an opportunity to correlate my personal life steps to those historical concrete steps.

For me, the steps of the BHM taught me the following reminders. I will share in case you need these reminders today, too.

What 294 Steps Taught Me

1. Fear is loud. Faith must speak louder.

2. Resting isn't quitting.

3. My pace is not your pace—and that's okay.

4. We weren't meant to climb alone.

5. Keep looking up.

Maybe that's the funny thing about climbing.

We spend so much energy getting to the top that we assume the top is where the reward will be.

We count the steps. We measure our progress. We compare our pace to the people passing us. We wonder how much farther we must go. We worry about what might happen before we get there.

And sometimes, when we finally arrive, we look around and think, “This is it?”

But maybe the view isn't the reward.

Maybe the reward was every step that got us there.

The people who encouraged us.

The people who waited for us.

The moments we stopped to catch our breath.

The hands that carried what we could no longer carry ourselves.

The courage to keep going when turning around seemed easier.

And, most importantly, the realization that we were never climbing alone.

I spent 294 steps listening to fear.

It wasn't until I reached the top that I remembered to look up.

And maybe that's the lesson I needed to bring home from Boston:

When the climb gets hard, look up.

Because sometimes the greatest view isn't waiting for us at the top.

God was in every step along the way.

And when I can't see what's ahead, I can still take the next step…with Him.

There is one more reason “Keep Looking Up” is especially meaningful to me.

Eleven years ago, after my sister passed away, I had a dream. I didn't see her. There was no image, no conversation, no elaborate scene.

I only heard her voice.

It woke me up.

“Look up.”

Two simple words.

I didn't understand then what those words would mean to me.

But standing at the top of the Bunker Hill Monument, after 294 steps of fear, exhaustion, anxiety and determination, I found myself looking up and thinking of Philippians 4:13.

“All things” is different for each person, and it doesn’t have to mean conquering huge mountains or a monument.

It can mean taking the next step when your legs are shaking.

It can mean resting without quitting.

It can mean accepting help.

It can mean quieting the fear long enough to talk with God…and hear Him.

And it can simply mean looking up.

So that's what I'm going to keep doing.

When I'm afraid.

When I don't know what's ahead.

When the climb feels too hard.

When I can't see the finish line.

When I wonder if the view at the top will be worth all these steps.

Keep looking up.

One step. One breath. One prayer at a time.

And that’s enough for today.

Blessings,
Bonnie🤍

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