Making a Home

I’m embarrassed to admit it, but when I went to the carport to get my hiking boots I found a bird’s nest in each of them. My left boot even had an unhatched egg in it. I guess it had been awhile since I’d been to the mountains. 

Ever since my father died forty years ago, I’ve considered the mountains my home. I was so lost, and it wasn’t until I moved to the mountains that I began to feel found. The dramatic contours of the land with all the peaks and valleys spoke a language my soul understood. I felt I could see God’s fingerprints in the earth’s clay, and name etched in the granite cliffs. Even when I was by myself, I didn’t feel alone. When the streams sang their way around the rocks, and birds danced effortlessly with the wind, it was as if I was being invited to come close. Even the weather, which is wildly unpredictable, plays a part in the liturgy of the mountains. The lightening and wind are often of biblical in proportion, and no organ can match the sound of thunder echoing through a valley.

As I drove up to the mountains yesterday, I remembered all the mountains have been to me and celebrated all that they still are. The birds may have used my boots to make a home, but now it’s my turn.

Re-scaling

I’d forgotten how big mountains could be. Driving into Jackson, Wyoming, with the Teton Mountains towering above, I turned off the music and adjusted my sense of scale. Each summer, my parents brought our family out west, and I never tired of the view. The razor-pointed peaks were what I imagined whenever someone spoke of mountains, or I tried to paint a mountainous landscape. But my time away had adjusted my sense of mountains. They had become less pointed, less tall, and eventually little more than impressive hills. Seeing the Tetons again, awakened me to what a mountain can be.

Our touristy to-do list was long, but, on Sunday, I knew I wanted to begin my day at a tiny log cabin church at the base of the Tetons. It had moved me when my parents dragged me there as a child, and a picture of the small church sits beside my photos of impressive cathedrals in my office. It's one of my favorite sacred spaces in the world, and I arrived an hour early to get a seat in one of the few aspen pews to wait for the service to begin. 

What makes the church special is the clear window behind the altar. It frames the Tetons perfectly, and, with a small wooden cross silhouetted in front, is more inspirational than any stained glass window I’ve ever seen. Never had I seen a church that celebrated creation better than this one, and it connected my faith to creation in a way that remains strong today.

But I realized as I sat there that my faith was as much in need of a re-scaling as my idea of a mountain. Over time, the faith that was given to me when I was a child, the one that was grand and glorious, had become rounded and diminished in height. For whatever reason, the peaks that had inspired me so had become little more than impressive hills - something to do on Sunday, hymns to sing, and an occasional uplifting sermon. Like the peaks behind it, I needed to re-scale the size of the faith represented by that simple cross in front of the window. It was time to reclaim its original majesty, its profound message, and its transformative power. 

As we stood to begin the service, I realized mine began an hour ago.

Announcement!

Dear faithful Brushstroke readers,

I am delighted to announce the arrival of The Boy Who Liked to Wear a Red Cape, a parable about learning to let go of those things to which we cling tightly. It’s a simple tale about a complex issue which will speak to children and adult alike. Order you copies today at: https://store.bookbaby.com/book/The-Boy-Who-Liked-to-Wear-a-Red-Cape

Gratefully,

Chip