Could I possibly make it one more step, I wondered desperately? No. The answer ringing in my head scared me more than the lack of oxygen in my lungs. With alarm, I realized my breathing had changed from the mere breathlessness of exertion to that desperate gasping that comes when taking air into the lungs is no longer enough. This was the first moment I actually considered that I might not be able to make the whole climb. It was a terrifying thought because I couldn't see a way out; going up meant not being able to breathe, but going down was surely impossible because the narrow passage was only one-person wide. I'd never get past the people behind me.
Thankfully, the people ahead of me stopped for a moment. At least, I was thankful until I realized they had stopped to let people coming down the narrow, marble staircase go past us. As I heard the descending steps of those heard-but-yet-unseen sightseers coming nearer, I tried to consciously control my breathing and slow my heartbeat, wondering all the while how any adults could possibly squeeze by. This must be a joke! Not one to usually feel claustrophobic, I began to press myself against the stone wall in a slow panic, praying that we would not get stuck. I would have held my breath as well, but I couldn't get enough of it in to hold. Who on earth led these groups to the top of the duomo? Had they never heard of timing or one-way routes? What on earth was I doing here?
Somehow, we slipped past one another, the descending group uttering encouragement as they passed. "Not much farther," they lied. Then I had to face the continuing climb. How many steps did the tour book say? 367? That didn't seem like much at the beginning, but after the first 60, when I had lost interest in counting, I was really questioning my ability to make it. Foolishly, I had followed the quick climbing pace of those in front of me; a young couple jogging as they counted and bantered. Cruel people, actually. This is a typical mistake for me; trusting the lead of others instead of thinking for myself. I, who called, at best, a 20 minute daily walk a "workout" had no business JOGGING up 367 extremely tall steps. Were those walls closing in, by the way? Was that 24 inch wide passageway getting even narrower, or was it a figment of my oxygen-starved brain?
At 100 steps we reached a broad landing where people stopped to look at antique paraphenalia hung on the walls overhead. I feined interest as I audibly gulped in huge quantities of air and refused to continue the climb again until my blue lips faded to at least white. Now at the back of the pack, my two kindly cohorts let me lead us up the remaining stairs at my own leisurely pace. I'm sure the guide, who followed at the rear and made the trip several times a day, was ready to throttle me, but at this point, survival was my only goal. I no longer cared if the view was worth it; I just wanted to live. Two-thirds of the way up we got another reprieve at the base of the dome as we filed along its inside wall just long enough to admire the frescos before re-entering the passage again. Hope flooded me at that point as I actually began to concieve of salvation. That was about the time the right hand wall became a vertical rope around which the steep steps spiraled and the left hand wall began to lean in. My breathing was better, but I will admit that my prayer life increased as I petitioned that no one would need to pass us again.
For me, the challenges of the climb were unexpected and life-changing. The view was, of course, worth it, but so was the experience itself. In that moment of hopelessness, when neither going up nor going down seemed actually possible, I faced real fear. Grace gave me a moment to collect myself, but it was hope that made me start moving again and got me to the top. I learned that nothing worthwhile is gained without risk and that my own instincts and reason are worth trusting.
So, during this second week of Advent, I celebrate Hope; one of the greatest gifts we have ever been given and one of the best blessings we can share with one another. Hope is what keeps us from giving up...on ourselves, on God, on each other. It keeps us from becoming bitter, dried up skeletons no longer capable of loving or taking risks. It drives us to keep looking for cures, to forgive, to try again, and to take another step up that winding, claustrophobic staircase of life.
Here's to the hope that Christmas will reign in our hearts forever:
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