"Mountains"

Today is Friday Fiction! I love all the great stories. Head over to Sherri's A Candid Thought for more.

My post today isn't really fiction, but a devotional I wrote last year when my husband took me on a trip to northern Maine.



MOUNTAINS

Enjoying the freedom of our empty nest, my husband and I headed north to high country. Once we passed Greenville, on the tip of Moosehead Lake, there was no more cell phone service or any other type of service, besides campgrounds or perhaps a hunter who might lend a hand.

This was really the Maine wilderness. We traveled down a dirt road that got so narrow that the scrubby alders brushed the sides of the truck. We had to dodge large rocks and pot holes occasionally. Even with the new shock absorbers, we bounced around quite a bit.

After parking the truck in a small clearing, we followed a path filled with tree roots and rocks and mud down to the pond, too shallow to be called a lake. The far side was at least a mile away. We could see a canoe and small fishing boat hugging the edges, while the owners tried their luck, their fly lines flashing in the sunshine. There were no moose. I was disappointed. They must have heard hunting season had started and headed for the hills.

Beyond the glittering pond sat row of mountains. Well, to us Mainers, they are mountains. To anyone in Colorado, they are just hills. I love to look up at mountains. They make feel so humble and small. It makes me realize the awesome greatness of the Creator of those mountains, yet He made the little grains of sand on my hand.

We chugged across the water until we reached a quiet cove. While we drifted on the gentle waves, my husband fished and I watched the mountains. One curved around just like a big croissant. I promptly named it thus: Mt. Croissant. Others humped behind it, like they were following their mother. The sky was filled with clouds, but occasionally, a spot of blue would open up and the sun streamed down. It would light up a circle of trees, spotlighting the fiery reds and oranges for a few seconds before the clouds covered it again.

Later we drove up Mt. Croissant (a.k.a. Hay Mountain, according to our atlas) to a spot where we could look across the colorful landscape. We could see the pond, like just a puddle nestled among the rolling bumps. The hills and mountains looked like a soft and fuzzy shag rug. The dark green of the firs and pines made the orange maples and yellow birches even brighter. You couldn’t see the rough roads, with the rocks and pot holes, or the twisting path with the tree roots and mud.

Life is like that. When I am on the mountaintops, I can see how far I have come and my destination. I forget how hard it was getting there, and I am encouraged to keep going. Every once in awhile, God gives me a glimpse of how things look from his perspective. He lets me know how a rough time helped me to become stronger or encouraged a weaker brother beside me. He lets me see answers to prayer or a soul saved. With renewed faith, I shoulder my load and continue down the rocky path, knowing He made that too.