The West Peak

Dawn was on fire.

The flames licked the golden grass and set the meadow ablaze.

The air was thin and cold and quiet,

My heartbeat was the only sound.

The mountain was bare and still, and my will quavered at its height.

Conquer it, conquer the peak, I muttered,

But within one step I knew that I, not it, was conquered,

For my ankles were weak and my lungs were heavy,

And the mountain stood, unmoved.

Oh, that I would have the faith to say to this mountain to remove itself, and yet—

I do not want it to be moved, I realize.

I want to climb it, not to say I conquered it,

Not to boast my strength,

But, Oh God, to see the view.

But now I stumble if I look around, so I must watch my feet,

Head bowed, like prayer.

So I step forward, and I slip backward,

At moments, I crawl.

I trip, and I fall.

And it is good.

The grace of God is unfailing, I say, with hands gripping rocks and eyes lowered,

Even here, on the stones of trial and injury,

Through strife and weakness,

I call upon the Lord and He answers me.

If I had wings to fly up the side of this mountain,

I should not now know the nature of my God,

I would not believe that He is near to those who are weary in spirit,

I would not feel His love for the least of these,

I would not comprehend the promise that even David prophesied in his distress,

That I may not hear your voice in the silence of the wind,

That I may lay awake at night in fear,

Yet, you are holy.

Even on the barren side of the mountain I am not put to shame,

For my hope is in you. Indeed, my hope is you.

So with trembling legs and aching lungs, I set my foot upon the heights.

The summit is mine, for a moment, but I surrender it back to the One who made it,

Who formed every stone with care, and who placed my feet there.

And I look out, Oh God, to see the view.

I behold with wonder the immensity of the sky,

Stretching to the North, South, East, and West,

Breaking upon the distant horizon carved out of mountain ranges,

An ocean of blue, and barely a cloud to break the endless sea.

Wonder does not cease with the sky,

For the valley is seamed with the gold of aspens ready, born ready,

To be sown in anticipation of resurrection.

What joy they have in their death,

And what glory they bring to their Father, knowing full well of His goodness

And proclaiming it to the world with all the might that flows through them like refined gold.

Is this, then, why we burn? Is this why the mountainside is rocks without end?

For to be like the aspens, ready to die for my beloved,

And, even more so, ready to be resurrected to eternal life with Him,

I must first be sanctified, clothed in His righteousness,

Bathed in His blood and wrapped in His garments,

Like a babe, born again,

And these are the labor pains.

But behold, I have looked out over the Promised Land,

I have seen its glory, and when I die I shall enter there and its splendor shall be more than I could ever imagine,

Because my King is the lamp; my God is the light that defeats all of the shadows.

So I wait in hope and in joy for what shall come with the dawn. 

Photos taken by my Papa