A few years ago I was on a rather memorable trek up Kilimanjaro with some friends. Near the beginning of the climb, we were still in reasonably good spirits and not too exhausted when we came across a porter who was not doing very well. He had fallen behind his group and was suffering from altitude sickness. He had no food or water and was delirious. We gave him some water and food and waited as he regained some alertness and strength. He lived. Realistically, he might not have.
Little did I know that a couple days later and a few kilometres higher it would be my turn. Having not slept in about 4 days and not able to keep down much food, I was not doing so hot. Now, I’m generally an independent sort that likes to be able to pull my own weight. This was a rather humbling moment for me. My faithful porter kept encouraging me in Swahili, having me sit down every 5 minutes of climbing and drink more water. He would make me nibble on something for energy. He would tie my bootlaces and wipe my nose if I needed it. He kept me alive when I wanted to puke and die. He kept me on the path and even helped me summit. He was such a generous and servant-hearted hero, and he taught me to receive unconditional grace when I didn’t want to need it so badly.
This final image has previously been posted on my Facebook page.