Today I hiked part of a mountain. 

It was a mountain that looked like a hill. America would consider it a mountain… it is more than 1000 feet (305 meters). The UK would not (mountains must be 2000 feet or 610 meters).

And I went part of the way up, because my brain usually wants all or nothing, and I am learning to be reasonable. This attempt does not stop my brain from yelling, “Go big or go home! The whole 1900 foot mountain, or nothing”

I ignored this part of my brain and told it to settle for walking until sunset to get my thoughts back in sync with my body. 

The Lord met me there on the hillside, “Remember the first time you climbed a hill looking for me? Lincoln Grade, listening to “Closer” by Amanda Cook. Remember being so broken you couldn’t have any conversations, but you were hungry for healing, and time with Me.”

I smiled. It was seven years ago now, but so much time and space had passed. 

“Remember when you couldn’t push yourself, convinced you would break—that there was nothing left to push anyway because you were too broken. And I chose you?” 

He talked to me about taking my time, and going at the pace of His voice, and how much easier it was to not try to do everything at once. A lesson I did not understand or want seven years ago. 

We talked and remembered hill-side conversations, sage brush sunsets, and worship soundtracks.

I was a little surprised to find myself further up the base of the mountain than I had intended, lost in conversation with the Lord.

I had to stop several times to get my heart-rate back down under 140 (sometimes I have blood pressure regulation issues with exercise).  Instead of ignoring the racing heartbeat, I took the opportunities to take photos or sit down. 

I felt like I was watching a memory slideshow of all my sweet conversations with the Lord, from the beginning of my “Yes” to now, and the breakthroughs and clarity that came after. 

I climbed the first third of the mountain faster than I had anticipated. I decided this was a good stopping place for a photo or two, before heading back down. 

Above me lay four more piles of stones in different places— points to aim for on another climb. Places others had reached that I had not, and that was okay.

Maybe just a little further, just to the next zig-zag in the path, or the next cluster of brush or yarrow. Then, just until the path ran out. Then all the sudden the hill blended into grassy and rocky scenery with no obvious landmarks. Nothing to break up the last leg of the mountain, I stopped and watched the sunset.

 

I had more than surpassed my expectations and felt accomplished. I had “put in my steps.” If I wasn’t going to push to the top and repeat the all or nothing pattern, this would be my turn-around. Great pictures, refreshing, and enjoying the moment. 

Just as I stood to head back down, the music in my earbuds slowed and the artist sang “Just you and I chasing sunlight, Oh don’t want to let the moment go, oh, anywhere with you is home, oh can we find a way to make it slow down…”  

I looked up, the sunlight was still touching the top of the hill. It felt like the Lord was calling me on, “come chase the sunlight! Will you walk a little further with me?” 

I kept walking. 

How do I know it was the Lord? Familiarity. Time spent tuning my ear, testing, listening, waiting, trusting and talking.  

If my husband calls me on the phone, I don’t need to ask who it is by the sound of his voice, and his mannerisms. The Lord invites us to be this close— whether He speaks one way or another, we are created to hear His voice. 

My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me – John 10:27 (ESV)

Logic with this one was easy—if it was the Lord calling me on, I had nothing to lose, if it wasn’t I would be a little more tired and get in a few steps at best, and at worst I would be back in the all or nothing cycle. 

Smiling at the song lyrics, “Under big sky, it’s just you and I,” I saw the second mile post two thirds of the way up the hill. 

“Keep walking, one stretch, don’t stop. You can make it” He whispered over my heart. 

I was reminded of memories of giving up, stopping short, excuses, backing down, and quitting on things that I had lost interest in, or felt too hard; and the times where I had kept pushing because the Lord invited me in. Victory and concession. My strength, and His. He was coaching me through my strength and into determination through trust. 

Muscles burning, legs weak, walking until the heart-rate jumped too high, past what my logic said, past what my willpower started, and, past what my emotions felt.  Up the mountain— we went.

More quickly than I thought, I was there. The second post two thirds of the way up. 

Milestones are everywhere. As little or big as you like them, behind us and in front of us. We confront hard things, but there are always more. Still, the Lord calls us onward. We go until our strength gives out, but we are both capable of staying in the middle. Not too much or too little, just exactly enough. 

When we allow the Lord to lead we can go further than we ever planned or imagined. Just walk to the next rock, the next clump of yarrow, the next zig-zag, we don’t have to have the whole picture. 

He could have asked me to walk to the second pile of rocks and I would have done it. But it was never about the pile of rocks, was it? 

Like the best coach, a loving father, and a friend joking all the way, He led me from one landmark to the next. Why?

I don’t know. 

Maybe it was for a blog post, or pictures, or fitness. Maybe it was just to spend time with me alone.

I left the mountain feeling energized, joyful, uplifted, and rejoicing. I felt refreshed and lifted up. Was it the endorphins from exercise, or from accomplishment? Sure, of course. Was it getting into my body and moving, instead of overthinking in my head? Maybe. Maybe all of it, maybe none of it. Maybe something else. 

Whatever the reason, the journey was beautiful. I saw the sunlight fade off of the mountain tops around me. It was time to go home, and I felt full, more certain, more at peace, and full of adventures, words, and hope—

I hadn’t conquered the mountain, or just gone on a hike. I had gone on a walk with my Father.