No Mountains Required

I have a very poor sense of direction. I think it's safe to say I'm directionally challenged. I can't tell you how many times, as we moved from place to place, I've told my kids we were exploring, when in fact (and they knew it) we were lost. I didn't realize exactly how challenged I was until we moved away from the mountains. You see, if I could see the mountains I could get my bearings- the mountains are to the west, or that mountain is to the west and that one to the North West. And then at least I knew the direction to go to find my way back to familiar territory.

When we moved to Ohio there were no mountains. It was a horrifying sensation- like vertigo- I had no way to get my bearings. I did a lot more "exploring," learned to carry a map, a cell phone, and a well marked map. (Thank goodness it was Dayton, Ohio and not, say, New York, New York!) When it came time to get a new car, we got one with a compass. Yes I found a way to find my bearings, but I missed the mountains. It is really so much less work to find your way when there is a huge, beautiful rock standing sentinel and giving clear direction.

Perhaps I was a little imaginative, but I felt the direction the mountains gave me was very personal. Like they were truly kind hearted giants who wished we would pay a bit more attention to what they have to say. As a teenager, one mountain was a particular source of perspective. When school, friends and family pressure seemed too much, I had only to walk out my back door and I could climb to a higher, peaceful place. The climb took effort and time. First I would go through fields and farmland, up the side until I reached a maple grove about 2/3 the way up the mountain. There was a large half exposed rock perfect for sitting on and enjoying the view. There was something amazing about seeing the house I lived in, my family, our farm, and most of the surrounding community from that exalted view.

In a field near my home was a ruin of an old homestead. From my seat in the maples, they seemed almost side by side- the living farm and ruined homestead. Those people who built it were not, at first glance, a part of my life, but the mountains had seen them come, had seen them go, had seen the house they built fall into ruin. Had seen new homes built, new families come and go. It was as if for a moment I was given insight into what really matters. That homestead family didn't take their home with them. They didn't take any money with them. What they had left behind had fallen into decay and all but disappeared- but they did leave something behind in settling the valley. Because they were among those who came and settled a community was made- a community which included my great grandparents and led, eventually to my life. What mattered most was that they built and how what they built rippled through the lives of others. It was almost as if, while I was up there the mountains shared their perspective, and when I went back home I took that with me, for at least a little while, a more clear understanding about what really matters and what really lasts in life and beyond.

And so it was that one day, in my late-twenties, I found myself staring out my living room window at the flat landscape. I had a lesson to prepare, a disaster of a house to clean, a baby soon to wake up, and two children soon home from school. I couldn't see beyond the trees and houses on the other side of the street. As much as I found the verdant green of Ohio enchanting, I also found it claustrophobic. How I longed to be able to walk out my door and climb to a place of peace and perspective. How tired I was of feeling disoriented and confused about which way was north. I wanted mountains and I was stuck in the flat, flat Midwest. I was on the verge of a really, really great pity party, but then a question crossed my mind that made me stop and reconsider.

Who made the mountains? I thought of how, in the Old Testament block we were studying the Lord was likened to a rock and a fortress. We had just finished He only is my rock and my salvation, my fortress; I shall not be greatly moved (Psalm 62:2). Did you know that the word used for "rock" has a cultural meaning beyond just rock? It was used to indicate a high place, easily visible, so it served as a beacon and gathering point in times of trouble. It was a place that would give safety, peace, protection, not only because it was made of hard enduring stone, was high up and hard for the enemy to reach, but because it provided and uncluttered view.

What those mountains meant to me, what I was really missing and wanting was the feeling of peace and increased perspective I had perched on my rock in the maple grove. I needed to know that the endless diapers, lessons, cleaning, homework, etc., where building something of value and it was hard to see that from my current perspective. Then I remembered the wonderful word's of Isaiah 40, where he paints how clear is the Lord's perspective; how complete, as compared to how limited ours is. Who hath measured the water in the hollow of his hand…and the dust of the earth in a measure, and weighted the mountains in scales…it is he that sitteth upon the circle of the earth, and the in habitants there of are as grasshoppers…but they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles." (Isaiah 4:15,22,31)

Clearly, my experiences with mountains were not given to me by the mountains, but were given through the mountains by their creator and my loving Heavenly Father. He sent my Savior and teacher to be that place of refuge, peace and perspective. The peace, the increased perspective, were gifts from Him, and so not dependant on my having access to the mountains themselves. If I live my life with Him as my point of orientation, I will be able to find direction. If I turn to Him to find increased perspective and peace, He can grant it. It is a climb that takes more than a bit of effort on my part, but whether I am in Ohio or Timbuktu, the "mountain of the Lord" is always available to me.