Conversation on Cathedral Rock

By David Shrum | Ascend Leadership & Development

My wife’s boss, Lisa, and her husband, Steve, have always been incredibly supportive of both my wife and our family. Last week, they invited us on a trip to Sedona, Arizona—which was an absolute blast. Arizona is one of their favorite destinations, and they wanted to share some of the spots they love most.

One of those locations was Cathedral Rock Butte. This red rock formation rises from the stunning terrain of Sedona and offers a fun 740+ foot climb that includes some scrambling and breathtaking views.

While on the trail, we met a couple from Illinois who each had very different experiences with hiking and trails like Cathedral Rock.

The first time I noticed them, I could hear the wife’s voice—desperation edging toward panic. She was pleading with her husband not to get too far ahead of her. He would check in, offer quick advice on handholds, tell her she was fine, and continue climbing. She expressed out loud—both to herself and to others—that his confident pace occurred to her as uncaring or indifferent.

People nearby softly chuckled at her remarks and offered encouragement, reassuring her that she was doing a great job. The reassurance helped briefly, but her story of fear always seemed to overpower the confidence others tried to impart to her.

At one point, our group of four paused to take in the view, and I found myself standing beside her—her name was JerryAnn. We chatted about how beautiful it was, and she began to share a bit of her story. Her husband, she told me, was a retired Army veteran—used to navigating tough terrain from his days rucking while enlisted.

I encouraged her, mentioning that we were about halfway to the top. She smiled nervously and said, “I’m only up here because of prayer. But what really scares me is coming back down.”

I said something simple like, “Well, all we have to focus on now is getting to the top. You’ve got this.” Then our group moved on.

The Summit

JerryAnn and her husband stayed behind us for most of the trail. At one point, I lost sight of them and assumed the frustrated couple had turned back to the trailhead. Our group paused at what I originally believed to be the traditional trail end—a spot where many stop to take photos. But Lisa and Steve wanted to show us something even better: the actual Cathedral Rock summit.

After a final scramble, we made it. As we took in the panoramic views, I noticed JerryAnn sitting off to the side of the rock formation. She was talking with other hikers about her experience during the ascent, but most of her conversation focused on her fear of the descent.

In one exchange, she mentioned she was twelve months in remission from cancer—and the summit erupted in cheers. Everyone encouraged her, but her husband had taken on a quiet role, standing back as others tried to offer what he no longer could. It occurred to me as a silent, “Maybe she’ll listen to them.”

When JerryAnn began her descent, she apologized to everyone for how long it might take her to get down. It quickly became apparent that she was struggling. Her fear took over. She began to sob as she moved from hold to hold, guided by her husband’s direction.

I told my group I wanted to help and caught up to them. We made it to a place where we could pause in the cool shadow of the summit. Her husband stood about ten feet ahead on the trail, and I stayed beside her. Her breathing was rapid. Through tears, she said toward him, “I don’t know how I’m going to get down. The only way I got up here was by prayer.”

I looked at her and said, “JerryAnn, when you were going through your cancer treatment, what got you through each day?”

She took a deep breath. The sobbing stopped. Her breathing slowed. I could see courage take hold.

She looked at me and said, “I had to.”

“I Had To”

That was the turning point.

She asked me to stay with her for the rest of the descent, and we immediately set out. She was still cautious, but something had shifted. Those three small words—I had to—carried power.

The next forty minutes were filled with conversation that revealed what lay beneath those few words. She had to for her family.

She spent the descent telling me about her grown children, their work, their passions, and the joy she found in supporting them through softball games and graduate school. She had stopped working outside the home years ago because it made sense for the family, and it occurred to me that she’d found fulfillment in being their center of gravity ever since.

When we reached the shuttle parking lot, she gave me a hug goodbye. And I thought—her resolve in that moment on the trail was the same resolve that had carried her through cancer.

A Heart That Remembers Strength

When we’re in our darkest valley, we have options. We can turn back. We can stay put—paralyzed by fear. Or we can move forward, confident that the Good Shepherd is with us, comforting and guiding us.

JerryAnn prayed her way up that mountain for strength. But the strength she found at the top wasn’t new—it had been there all along.

She had already been molded into someone capable of walking through the darkest valley with God, her family, and even a stranger on a trail. She just had to rediscover it.

We often get stuck in the moment. We become overwhelmed by the valley walls rising above us and forget the wealth of experiences we’ve already been led through. It isn’t our ability that fails us—it’s our fear that blinds us to what’s possible.

These valley moments may be exactly what we need: opportunities to rely on His comfort, grace, and love.

So… what resource could our valley be—for ourselves, our families, our communities, and our teams—if it wasn’t an inconvenience, but an invitation to discover what we’re truly capable of?