First Sunday of Lent: staying the course

We are climbing Jacob’s ladder,
We are climbing Jacob’s ladder,
We are climbing Jacob’s ladder,
Soldiers of the cross.

Every round goes higher, higher,
Every round goes higher, higher,
Every round goes higher, higher,
Soldiers of the cross.

Sinner, do you love my Jesus?
Sinner, do you love my Jesus?
Sinner, do you love my Jesus?
Soldiers of the cross.

If you love Him, why not serve Him?
If you love Him, why not serve Him?
If you love Him, why not serve Him?
Soldiers of the cross.

Rise, shine, give God the glory,
Rise, shine, give God the glory,
Rise, shine, give God the glory,
Soldiers of the cross.
--Af­ri­can-Amer­i­can spir­it­u­al
Pete Seeger's variation
Lewis Scharpf, Jr.'s variation
Bruce Springsteen adds his version of Seeger's, which has also been rendered by Arlo Guthrie.
* * * * * * *
(edited)This song has been running through my mind lately, partly as an affirmation that when some aspects of life begin to seem endlessly repetitive, they are not. Every rung is taking us higher.

Over twenty years ago, I spent two years in the Canadian bush country, living on the edge of a lake which was frozen solid from (roughly) November to April. Over one Christmas break, when the students were gone, the single staff trudged across the vast white expanse of the lake to reach a hill referred to by staff as "King's Lookout," after a former staff who liked to hike to it regularly (if I remember correctly).

When we were out in the middle of the lake, we did not seem to move for long periods of time, in relation to the shoreline. The dry snow was over a foot deep. The leader struck a straight course for the lookout. Those behind him stepped into the deep footprints he left behind, over and over, over and over. At times, the monotony of the repetition seemed as if it would slowly drive one crazy.

However, eventually, over time, landmarks on the shoreline could be seen to shift. And finally, our long strung out line reached the far shore, and progress became "normal" again. We passed a tree, a bush, a rock, dried grass, in rapid succession. We gained elevation; we attained the lookout, where we could see for miles, even view our long, snaking trail across the lake.

Then we began the descent, and the long journey back. We were tired; the destination was not (at first) as exciting,* but we had learned the continuous up-and-down motion of our knees would bear fruit. It was the price of the journey.

Maybe a little like picking cotton, washing the dishes, cleaning the bathroom, teaching a child to eat or toilet. We are headed home.

*But became ever more attractive as we neared it.