In the mountains by myself, God is the heart of it all. Of course, the beautiful thing about God is that He works however He pleases. He uses people, and beautiful sights; even my own dangerous thoughts and imagination are inspired by Him every-so-often. Mostly though, He makes me realize how much I am loved, and how much more He deserves love in return.
I used to think poorly of love, rather, I didn’t believe such a thing existed. Not true love, anyway. For my entire life, I feel I have been showered with love. From my grandparents, my own parents, my aunts and uncles, friends. Yet, when my mom left this world, it felt like she took all life and love with her. One set of my grandparents left completely, never writing, never calling, never sending Christmas gifts again. My father went back to work. It seemed like that was all he ever did. No more stories about Narnia and the incredible Dr. Zams told from the hallway to get us to sleep. There were no more days dancing to Stayin’ Alive in the car with the windows rolled down. My sister and I no longer wedged our two beds together and spent hours giggling under the covers. We had a nanny, dad came home for dinner and went to work early, and that was all.
In many ways, that destroys a person. Cuts them apart inside, like someone taking your heart and sending it through a fine paper shredder.
It wasn’t until two years ago that Winter Park swept in and captured a piece of my heart. A piece I didn’t know I had. I had not wanted to go, but I did not have a choice in the matter. It wasn’t until I stepped foot onto the mountain that God grabbed hold of my life and stuck it in the washing machine on spin cycle.
I had been walking back from the meeting cabin, my face covered in the fragments of a good cry. The snow squeaked beneath my feet and the frigid air numbed my nose and cheeks. I kept my face towards the ground, defying the cold until I took a deep breath and smelled something I had never smelt before. I slowed my pace and sniffed hard. What was that? Air had never tasted so sweet before. I began looking around for the source of the smell. I stared into the dark woods; no, nothing there. I turned to look down the long valley, blanketed in sparkling white snow that made you feel like someone had taken a can of glitter and dumped on the mountains. I looked at the ground, covered in patches of slick ice, and then at my toes, kept warm by my fuzzy boots. I sighed deeply this time, making sure I wasn’t dreaming, surprised my nose still worked due to the frigid air. Sydney, it’s Me.
For a moment I forgot to breathe, startled at hearing a voice. Where was it coming from? Then it felt like a ton of bricks was rammed into my chest. It was God. Talking to me. I know you. I know you. I love you.
In that moment, it was as if small pieces of my heart were being pieced together again. There wasn’t anything beautiful about this patchwork heart of broken pieces held together by Elmer’s glue and band-aids. Nothing beautiful at all, except for the hands piecing it back together.
You see, to this day that heart is still not fully mended, and cracks are often found. Cracks of jealousy. Anger. Bitterness. However, I can always find myself thinking back to those moments when God pulled the missing piece from His pocket and set it in place, and I realize that if only I surrender to the one who knows me and loves me, I can have that slim piece back. And when I gaze at the mountains, or find myself so privileged to be in the mountains, I can’t help but smile; because I know what those mountains, crafted by Yahweh, hold. What they can do. They can open one’s eyes to the limitless world, the limitless sky. The can open one’s eyes to their insignificance, but also to their value. They can reveal the Creator of the mountains, the oceans, and his true majesty. They can take a caged bird and teach it how to sing.
It is in those moments, lost in solitude but not really lost at all, where I find I can love again. Where I find I am loved. Where I find my Mister Darcy.
In the mountains by myself, God is the heart of it all. Of course, the beautiful thing about God is that He works however He pleases. He uses people, and beautiful sights; even my own dangerous thoughts and imagination are inspired by Him every-so-often. Mostly though, He makes me realize how much I am loved, and how much more He deserves love in return.
I used to think poorly of love, rather, I didn’t believe such a thing existed. Not true love, anyway. For my entire life, I feel I have been showered with love. From my grandparents, my own parents, my aunts and uncles, friends. Yet, when my mom left this world, it felt like she took all life and love with her. One set of my grandparents left completely, never writing, never calling, never sending Christmas gifts again. My father went back to work. It seemed like that was all he ever did. No more stories about Narnia and the incredible Dr. Zams told from the hallway to get us to sleep. There were no more days dancing to Stayin’ Alive in the car with the windows rolled down. My sister and I no longer wedged our two beds together and spent hours giggling under the covers. We had a nanny, dad came home for dinner and went to work early, and that was all.
In many ways, that destroys a person. Cuts them apart inside, like someone taking your heart and sending it through a fine paper shredder.
It wasn’t until two years ago that Winter Park swept in and captured a piece of my heart. A piece I didn’t know I had. I had not wanted to go, but I did not have a choice in the matter. It wasn’t until I stepped foot onto the mountain that God grabbed hold of my life and stuck it in the washing machine on spin cycle.
I had been walking back from the meeting cabin, my face covered in the fragments of a good cry. The snow squeaked beneath my feet and the frigid air numbed my nose and cheeks. I kept my face towards the ground, defying the cold until I took a deep breath and smelled something I had never smelt before. I slowed my pace and sniffed hard. What was that? Air had never tasted so sweet before. I began looking around for the source of the smell. I stared into the dark woods; no, nothing there. I turned to look down the long valley, blanketed in sparkling white snow that made you feel like someone had taken a can of glitter and dumped on the mountains. I looked at the ground, covered in patches of slick ice, and then at my toes, kept warm by my fuzzy boots. I sighed deeply this time, making sure I wasn’t dreaming, surprised my nose still worked due to the frigid air.
Sydney, it’s Me.
For a moment I forgot to breathe, startled at hearing a voice. Where was it coming from? Then it felt like a ton of bricks was rammed into my chest. It was God. Talking to me.
I know you. I know you. I love you.
In that moment, it was as if small pieces of my heart were being pieced together again. There wasn’t anything beautiful about this patchwork heart of broken pieces held together by Elmer’s glue and band-aids. Nothing beautiful at all, except for the hands piecing it back together.
You see, to this day that heart is still not fully mended, and cracks are often found. Cracks of jealousy. Anger. Bitterness. However, I can always find myself thinking back to those moments when God pulled the missing piece from His pocket and set it in place, and I realize that if only I surrender to the one who knows me and loves me, I can have that slim piece back. And when I gaze at the mountains, or find myself so privileged to be in the mountains, I can’t help but smile; because I know what those mountains, crafted by Yahweh, hold. What they can do. They can open one’s eyes to the limitless world, the limitless sky. The can open one’s eyes to their insignificance, but also to their value. They can reveal the Creator of the mountains, the oceans, and his true majesty. They can take a caged bird and teach it how to sing.
It is in those moments, lost in solitude but not really lost at all, where I find I can love again. Where I find I am loved. Where I find my Mister Darcy.