When I was a little kid, my rich-ass, hippie-dippie aunt (for the record, the irony of those two characteristics going together was not lost on me, even at such a young age) would take my mom, her other sister, and all us cousins to Sun Valley, Idaho every other summer; we once went for a hike. I remember the first fifteen minutes or so were incredibly boring. Fortunately, as is usual in early summer in the mountains, there was quite a bit of running water on the footpath. Like any little boys would, my brother and I started to collect rocks and dirt and such to dam up and divert one of the little streams, but when we got down to actually doing so, our aunt literally ran back down the path toward us, kicked our marvel of engineering into oblivion, and scolded us saying, "Stop it! You'll mess up the ecosystem!" This was news to me, and I've never forgotten the experience.
Fast forward ten years.
Last weekend, I was on a hike up the Bitterroot valley in Montana with my dad. It was gorgeous. About 40 minutes in, we found a cliff with a creek at the bottom.
The Bible instructs us to take nature and subdue it. And at that moment, it dawned on me that all those years ago, my aunt had caused me to sin. Seeking atonement, I began to scrounge for rocks. Though I did not find one of those teetering, tree-shattering behemoths seemingly placed on hillsides by the good Lord himself for the express purpose of trundling, I did manage to pick up a stone big enough for my purposes. I fervently strode to the edge of the cliff, then released the rock with a "Here's to you, Aunt Al!" and happily watched it fall for several seconds before exploding into thousands of glorious pieces on the edge of the cliff, causing a small avalanche of dirt, rocks, and other debris to slide into the creek. And the weight of my conscience slid off my shoulders...
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