If you hike or backpack, you may be familiar with the name Jeff Lowe.  Sadly, once one of the most renowned climbers on the planet and progenitor of a successful outdoor equipment and clothing company, Lowe passed away last week.  He was 67.  Tragically, and ironically, he succumbed to a neuromuscular disease similar to amyotrophic lateral sclerosis ("Lou Gehrig's" disease).  It was a singularly unexpected end for one who, earlier in his life, had dazzled his contemporaries with his endurance and ability on the loftiest peaks on earth.  Like Douglas Haston, a British climber who perished in an avalanche in the late Seventies and who was equally revered for his remarkable powers of agility and endurance, Lowe did his best to live to the fullest the life he had been given.  Reflecting on the frequent hardship of climbing high peaks, he noted, "Sometimes it doesn't have to be fun to be fun."
     More than most, Lowe understood that individual greatness and satisfaction come most powerfully through difficulty and challenge.  Granted, unlike a person born with a disability, Lowe created the situations of challenge that shaped him.  He entered into them by choice, and did not start life with a debilitating level of physical challenge.  Nonetheless, his observation remains seminal and true:  we grow more deeply when we grapple with situations that seem, initially anyway, bigger than we can handle.
     Last week, I wrote about how many in the West long for a return to the Garden, a sort of primordial longing for a seamlessness of moral and physical perfection.  Sounds good?  Perfection means the end of all forward movement, the close of all adventure and speculation.  Would we be happy with this?
     As I write this, I think, again, about how extraordinarily difficult it is to maintain belief in a perfect God in an imperfect world.  On the other hand, maybe that's why I believe it.
     Farewell, Jeff Lowe.  Thanks for the power of your existence.