After an epic month of sadness and trial, we went on vacation. As fun as that may sound in theory, as I packed I felt like I was doing one last chore, running up one last hill so that I could finally, finally curl up in the fetal position and just cry.
I'm sure we are not the only ones who have been in that place.
So we went from that place to this place, a campground in Kentucky. We camped in tents, and my mother-in-law did the cooking for all of us.
The world and God conspired to give us a space to rest, to heal.
The mountains are good for the soul. My little adventurers trudged along for mile after mile of hiking trails, panting but not complaining. Our eyes were too full of wonder to worry about our tired legs.
"Mommy, I feel so small here," said one.
|Grammy and Peter, age 4, who is NOT a baby.|
Yes, child, we are small, so small.
We can climb and explore and stand beside waterfalls, but here we are cured of the notion that we are in charge of any of this. We are freed from the burden of believing our shoulders were meant to bear the weight of it all. These mountains have been here for ages; these trees have grown since before any of us were born, and they continued their stretch heavenward even while we were at home near the cornfields, burying our dead.
Lord, you have been our dwelling place
He is our dwelling place, and we are his small-but dearly loved- children.
As we travel through valleys of sorrow and up moutains of joy, again and again,
He will prove to us His faithfulness, and He will give us rest.
Confirm the work of your hands, Lord.