You know what I hate? I mean, really, really hate in a way that makes me feel frozen with dread?
Steep inclines, especially when combined with winding roads.
We’re talking about driving up a mountain. Who’s to say the car won’t suddenly be sent spiraling out of control and descending willy-nilly? Who’s to say my very life won’t be at stake?
This girl is a certified flatlander. Give me the busiest highway in North America, any day, then drive a steep mountain climb.
I found this out unexpectedly a few years ago, during the month. The one that layers anniversaries, the good, the beautiful, the hard, and the tragic one after another.
And no, the good ones do not cancel out the hard ones; nor the beautiful the tragic. At least, not yet. For now, the month and I have an agreement. We hold hands and look to Jesus as we walk through it.
Not to belabor the point, but to clarify for anyone new here. At 51 years of age, just as I was making my way through menopause and an empty nest, my husband of 31 years (a pastor), unexpectedly took his life. When I say unexpectedly, I mean that he did not have a history of depression or mental illness that might have made the shock of it all, well, possibly less shocking. Not less appalling, or devastating, or grievous, mind you.
After the phone call came, but before I could get home that day, I found out he had been involved with another woman. In less than one year, I lost the following: my husband, my marriage, my church, my job, my home, many friends, and my country. It took me years upon years to feel hope and purpose. There has been much healing, but scars do remain.
So, back to me, the month, and the mountain.
A couple of years ago, I decided to go away for three days during the zenith of said month. I booked a place in the mountains on the outskirts of Asheville, North Carolina.
The little mountain villa looked adorable in the pictures. When the day came for me to make my way there, I felt downright adventurous. With my car packed, I ventured out, stopping only once along the way to pick up some groceries.
It was a glorious day. The GPS guided my little, confident self along.
Leaving the highway wasn’t so bad. After all, I’m not afraid of a bit of unknown territory. It wasn’t long before I found my shoulders tensing as I concentrated on the directions while watching the road ahead and the tiny map on my phone out of the corner of my eye.
When the GPS declared that I had arrived at my destination, my brow furrowed in disbelief. “Surely not.”
There, at the base of a lush, green North Carolina mountain, I was presented with a gravel driveway curving up its side.
The road’s narrow width boasted no shoulders or guardrails. The mountain wall was on one side, the precipice on the other. As I later learned, occasional driveways led up or down to the houses of people who were clearly very courageous. But I did not know this.
Not that it would have mattered.
I had a choice: proceed up that narrow gravel road or stick to the winding paved road around the mountain. I chose to continue driving around the mountain.
Just about the time I was sure that I would be circling forever, I pulled out onto a main road. There I found a place to stop and re-enter the address—only to have it take me right back to that steep, narrow, gravel lane.
“You have now arrived at your destination,” the voice declared once again.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
This time, I pulled in and stopped at the base of the road. Tentatively, I got out of my car and began walking up the hill. Surely, the house was just around the corner. I quickly found myself out of breath, but proceeded on foot.
When I finally reached the first bend in the road, I faced another stretch of the same uphill terrain—and a car headed straight toward me. We both stopped abruptly. As there wasn’t any room for me to move aside, I clearly had no choice but to head back down. Slowly, lest I slide down the stones to the bottom. I confess, it was a challenge to walk with dignity as the car crept along behind me.
When we got to the base of the road where my car stood blocking their exit, I figured I might as well bite my pride and ask them about the road’s continuing trajectory.
“Up,” laughed the older gentleman as he leaned around the driver, a teenage girl. He assured me that yes, indeed, there were many houses up on the mountain, and it was possible to drive to where I needed to go. “In fact,” he said, “my daughter drives it all the time.”
I walked down to my car, telling myself, “If she can, I can.” That was quickly followed by the very real possibility of, “She can, I can’t.” And finally, “She has to, I don’t.”
So, I got in my car and proceeded around the mountain again.
This time, however, before I returned, I pulled off into the empty lot of what appeared to be a Volunteer Fire Station. From there, I called my brother, who put me on speaker phone so my sister-in-law could also hear. They were sympathetic but not sure how to help me, except to pray with me, which they did. Their voices of reason buoyed my spirits, and I made my way back to the hopeful destination.
By Jove, I had already paid for my stay. I had my groceries. Somehow, I would get up that mountain!
Once again, I approached the ascent, stopped in an area just a little ahead, and called the Airbnb hosts.
Fortunately for me, they answered. Better yet, they lived right next door to the little place I had rented. After listening to my stumbling inquiries about the safety of the mountain climb, they laughed. And laughed again.
Until they realized I was dead serious. After which, they proposed that the husband drive down to meet me at the bottom.
Within ten minutes or so, an aged car came fearlessly down the precipice, its occupant waving at me. That’s when I met Jack, a jovial Vietnam veteran with one leg. And clearly no fear. When he offered to drive me up to the cabin and back down so I could see the route and the road, my rule of “don’t ride alone in the car with another woman’s husband” flew out the window.
Together, curve by curve, we made our way up that mountain. I still can’t believe that people pay good money to buy real estate on the edge of death.
When we arrived at our destination, there sat an adorable cottage jutting out from the mountain, supported by two wooden stilts. Which, honestly, after the road, looked just slightly more promising. How I wished I could have just stayed at the top, but down below was the car, the books, and the ice cream. So, back down the mountain Jack and I went.
Did I want to follow him up in my car? No, I did not. But it was the only way to the top. With my heart loudly pounding, I got in my car and followed Jack, going 20 mph max the entire way.
One thing was certain: there would be no more trips down the mountain until necessary. That zipline excursion I saw on the way in? Nada. The few groceries I had? Enough. Had I known the mountain ahead of me, I would have prepared better. And yet, there are just some mountains you can’t prepare for, aren’t there?
After what seemed an interminable amount of time, we reached the top. I hauled my things in and collapsed. Still, it didn’t take me long to venture out onto the tiny balcony.
There, I stood and marveled.
The panoramic view, the colors, and the air itself displayed the handiwork of God. Every morning, noon, and evening, the landscape changed. Alone at that mountain-top retreat, I rested, soaking up the beauty that sang of the never-ending majesty, love, and presence of my heavenly Father.
I suspect that most readers will not grasp how dearly that journey cost me, nor understand the complexity of my struggle. But I know how hard it was for me. More importantly, God knows.
In the weeks and months to come, that trip stayed with me. With each memory, God’s still, small voice reminded me of other climbs that so many have. There comes a point in all of our lives where we face something so hard we want to run from it. You know I’m not talking about literal dirt, rocks, and trees here, right?
Death. Divorce. Rejection. Betrayal. Cancer. Singleness. Infertility. Job loss. Failure. Loneliness.
Mountains, we have no choice but to climb. Mountains that feel like we are crawling up on our hands and knees as sheets of ice-cold rain pour down on us, and mud sucks us down.
We need help getting up our mountain. None of us can do it on our own.
Each day, I have reminders. Each year, I have a month. The month may remind me of the mountain, but the month is not the mountain.
It does give me a few more opportunities to pause and acknowledge the deep pain that deep love brought. But just like the views I saw at the top of that mountain retreat, the month is also filled with moments to stop, look fully into God’s face, and remember who He is.
When Jehoshaphat faced destruction, he went straight to God in fear and trembling. “Do not be afraid and do not be dismayed at this great horde,” the Lord assured him, “for the battle is not yours but God’s” (2 Chronicles 20:15).
Before Jehoshaphat saw the victory, he believed God and worshiped.
When Job’s world fell apart, and pain tore his body and soul, God didn’t tell Job how talented, strong, and amazing He was. God said, “Look at Me” (Job 38-42). And Job did.
When loss piled upon loss in my life, those who sat with me in quietness and kindness, without criticism or blame, pointed me to God.
When I struggled to get out of bed and get dressed, I knew who to ask for prayer. When my stomach revolted, and my weight dropped dangerously low, those with the face of God made sure I ate.
When my brain grew cloudy, and truth seemed vague, those who whispered God’s promises to me pointed me to God.
And that was how I got up the mountain. One step, one breath, one prayer, and one verse at a time.
Each week, I sit with women whose hearts fail them as they look at a mountain before them. I remind myself that I don’t have to have all the answers, I don’t have to know why, and I will never, nor should ever be their Savior.
All I have to do is love them, walk with them, and point them to God. You see, I’ve been up the mountain. I know that the climb is worth the view.
This year, a couple of weeks before the month, a friend and I drove up a mountain together. With detailed directions, we navigated the curves. Along the way, I mentioned my aversion to winding mountain roads. As it turns out, my friend feels the same. But there we were, doing it; going to meet another friend who had everything prepared for us in her beautiful home up high.
It only took me several weeks to see the message that sat before my eyes. I don’t have to like mountains. All I need to do is trust the directions, have a good friend along, and keep my eyes on the One who climbed the very worst hill for me.
“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the LORD, which made heaven and earth.”
Psalm 121:1-2
