small in the mountains

After an epic month of sadness and trial, we went on vacation.  As fun as that may sound in theory, as I packed I felt like I was doing one last chore, running up one last hill so that I could finally, finally curl up in the fetal position and just cry.

I'm sure we are not the only ones who have been in that place. 

So we went from that place to this place, a campground in Kentucky.  We camped in tents, and my mother-in-law did the cooking for all of us. 

The world and God conspired to give us a space to rest, to heal. 

The mountains are good for the soul. My little adventurers trudged along for mile after mile of hiking trails, panting but not complaining.  Our eyes were too full of wonder to worry about our tired legs. 

"Mommy, I feel so small here," said one.

Grammy and Peter, age 4, who is NOT a baby.

Yes, child, we are small, so small. 

We can climb and explore and stand beside waterfalls, but here we are cured of the notion that we are in charge of any of this. We are freed from the burden of believing our shoulders were meant to bear the weight of it all.  These mountains have been here for ages; these trees have grown since before any of us were born, and they continued their stretch heavenward even while we were at home near the cornfields, burying our dead. 

Psalm 90 English Standard Version (ESV)

A Prayer of Moses, the man of God.

Lord, you have been our dwelling place

    in all generations.

Before the mountains were brought forth,

    or ever you had formed the earth and the world,

    from everlasting to everlasting you are God.

You return man to dust

    and say, “Return, O children of man!”

For a thousand years in your sight

    are but as yesterday when it is past,

    or as a watch in the night.

You sweep them away as with a flood; they are like a dream,

    like grass that is renewed in the morning:

in the morning it flourishes and is renewed;

    in the evening it fades and withers.

For we are brought to an end by your anger;

    by your wrath we are dismayed.

You have set our iniquities before you,

    our secret sins in the light of your presence.

For all our days pass away under your wrath;

    we bring our years to an end like a sigh.

The years of our life are seventy,

    or even by reason of strength eighty;

yet their span is but toil and trouble;

    they are soon gone, and we fly away.

Who considers the power of your anger,

    and your wrath according to the fear of you?

So teach us to number our days

    that we may get a heart of wisdom.

Return, O Lord! How long?

    Have pity on your servants!

Satisfy us in the morning with your steadfast love,

    that we may rejoice and be glad all our days.

Make us glad for as many days as you have afflicted us,

    and for as many years as we have seen evil.

Let your work be shown to your servants,

    and your glorious power to their children.

Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us,

    and establish the work of our hands upon us;

    yes, establish the work of our hands!

He is our dwelling place, and we are his small-but dearly loved- children. 

As we travel through valleys of sorrow and up moutains of joy, again and again, 

He will prove to us His faithfulness, and He will give us rest.

Confirm the work of your hands, Lord.

Amen.