My feet grip the top of the ridge and I pull myself over the last boulder, my movement sending a scattering of loose pebbles and dirt towards my climbing companions below. My breath catches and my heart slows as I glance over the clouds breaking above and beneath me; the silent, pudgy sheep who have beat me to the summit; and the soft green plains and hills sloping away thousands of feet below.
I had not anticipated the difficulty of this hike.
When at the 1/3 mark I felt my breath deepening, I had relished in the exertion. Over the last hour, ascending vertically on a path of completely loose rocks, I kept moving, ordering my thoughts to bide until I had finished scaling the mountain.
Sometimes the climbing is harder if you stop to pause and consider it.
Yet now I was here, and the views surrounding me were stunning. This was a lone peak; often at a summit you might find yourself in the middle of a mountainous realm hidden from outsider’s views, but this mountain stands solitary, a sentinel to the villages, plains, and lakes below. Pilgrims hike it in prayer and meditation; I, honestly, had done it more for thrill and nostalgia. This was the mountain on which St. Patrick had purportedly spent one of his first Lenten seasons after his return to the isle. He slept on the hard rock, and offered his fasting and discomfort for the salvation of those souls below to whom he had come with news of hope, salvation, and new life.
The top is completely barren. A flat slab is partitioned off to mark what was likely his bed. There’s nothing to block the wind; the only companions to him would have been these sheep.
Still, I turn to the left and there are smaller mountain ranges across the valley; I look ahead, and the lowering sun’s beams encrust the cumulus clouds with glory; I gaze to the right, and there is the village, water, and green grasses far away.
Never have I found such a bleak spot crowned with such glory and beauty.
My legs are trembling from the effort of reaching this spot though, and I silently laugh at the naivete with which I started.
Yet, perhaps our sainted bishop also found his Lenten retreat a bit different than he had anticipated; who knows?
I stumble forward, wanting to investigate the little white building I see before me. As I near it, I realize it’s actually how a chapel. How is the world did they build it up here? The doors are locked, but as I peer through the smudged window-pane, I sight the flickering red candle towards the front of the darkened room.
I did not expect to find Him here.
I cannot get to Him, but He’s here. I draw in the fragile air, and stare away over the landscape. And there is the world: saved and yet still in need of saving.
He once said, “This kind can only be cast out through prayer.”
My reverie breaks; I realize I must begin the descent or I, too, will spend the night on the mountain. The near-vertical drop awaits my footsteps, and I will pray. Christ on my right side, Christ on my left side, Christ before me, Christ behind me…
…Alone, perhaps. Locked away, certainly. Yet still uplifted for us.
And for a fleeting moment, I’m here with Him.
Thank you, Rachel. Beautifully written!
Thank you!
That’s my beautiful, elder daughter! Touche!
…Alone, perhaps. Locked away, certainly. Yet still uplifted for us.
Just simply beautiful and very touching!