A Sequel. It is a beautiful morning and everyone else is inside studying their Kierkegaard and Brunner but I've different plans. The great iron latch creaks but reveals no secrets as I slip through the crack and outside, outside of the shelter and into the elements.
Out here it is harsh but far from uninviting. The winter air gives a deep, frigid embrace. Thick flakes tumble down from a heavy sky and gather on the slopes of the chalet roofs. They look like sleep on the heavy lidded eyes of the chalet windows. Inside, weathered armchairs like the elbows of professor's wool sweaters cradle books and the thoughts inspired therein.
But Oh! Outside is glorious! I am breaking the "rules" by coming out here during study time but I don't care. Sometimes the beauty of nature can tell you just as much about God as a theologian. I doubt Schaeffer would care. A fellow student, an Aussie, is shoveling snow* and is startled by my appearance. "Is there a road that way?" I inquire, heedless of his astonishment that I am out during study hours. "Uh, yes." He responds, pausing, leaning on his shovel. I step around him and to the road that quickly diminishes to a footpath. It dips around a corner to the right and rises into the protection of a forest draped in snow.
Soft footfalls. Solitary steps.
As the snowy trail eased into the trees I can envision the late Francis and Edith Schaeffer walking up ahead on such a day as this. Francis would be wearing wool knickers and a loden sweater. Edith would have her dark hair gathered up and a knapsack with slices of her famous brown bread inside. As flakes drift down through the tree limbs above in winter's silence I can almost hear echoes of their conversation from so long ago. I wonder what they talked about when they went out for walks. L'Abri finances and students? Their
enfant terrible** of a son Franky? The order of God's will? They had but ordinary voices. Yet their words were extraordinary.
The path angles steeply up through the woods, over a snow camouflaged creek and ends at the gate of a cemetery. That trail is really like a book, you know. The opening line drew me away from our sleepy existence to the exterior, a harsh place but closer to reality. With each step the enjoyment of cold, alpine air was like learning something new. Each thought was so pure that it frosted my insides. The climax came as the path ascended and the conclusion laid solemnly with the tombstones. After a few minutes of contemplation at the graves' gates I shiver and continue walking up the mountain. This story is not over.
*At L'Abri students maintain the facility for half of the day and spend the other half in study. This not only helps keep the place running but also contributes to the practice of living in community. This Aussie was on his work shift - he had a legitimate reason for not studying!
** An
enfant terrible is a "child whose inopportune remarks cause embarrassment
or a person known for shocking remarks or outrageous behavior" (Merriam-Webster).
