I sit upon the side of a mountain; a plateau of bare rock beneath still trees. There is something divine about it. I do not know how high I’ve climbed; I just know I’m not at the top yet. But it is a beautiful climb. I love this mountain. There is something inexpressible in its being; like a piece of the mountain was sheared off by some masterful craftsman and molded into the shape of my heart. A spiritual current connects me to this mountain and I cannot explain it. It is dense and cold, but joyful. The air bites at your ears and your eyes squint with forced tears trying to see through the fog. A thick, opaque cloud hovers near the peak, but no one can see past. We only hear rumors of what may await at the top.

The trees watch. The earth sits pensive, but far from dormant. Pensive implies an active mind.  That is one of the misunderstood features of a mountain. People think it so majestic, so massive, that they believe it to be dead; when nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, I have found the bigger the mountain, the more alive. Mountains are. They are dynamic and even a bit reckless. They wait for us to tell them to move. But they have sat there so long waiting, we imagine them immovable. The older, the more joy; that is the first thing this mountain has taught me.

            Secondly, mountains are meant to be climbed. And everyone scales it according to their ability. So too do I. On this mountain I am but one adventurer, one of many, for it is not my mountain. And that is why I wish to climb. Many have gone before me, beckoning me to follow. The Story they told, I wish to tell. They gave me their hand and pulled me up to where they stood, vivid and faithful. They have now eclipsed the cloud. And so I speak from where I stand. For those who have climbed higher, this book is not for you. Forgive me for what I do not know and pray that I may see as you do. For those who cannot yet see the mountain, you will not understand what I say. The mountain has a language of its own and it is for all nations; but faith lets one know when they are ready to climb. And you will know. Until then, my prayers are for you. But for those of you who are below, who feel the spirit of the mountain moving in your soul, give me your hand and I’ll pull you up. For the view is unspeakable, and I have heard it only gets better.

            At the outset, I must make a confession. A common misstep, and a fatal one with this Story, is to speak of things yet to see, to speak of things only heard in rumors, and allow sand to serve as foundation. That is to be dogmatic. There is nothing wrong with being faithful, for it is speaking with a genuineness of belief. We all have faith in something; even in this Great Story two people will see the same sight but interpret it different. That is good and a gift from the mountain’s Maker. But to speak absolutely convinced of my conclusions and intolerant of those who think different, when the true answers have yet to be fully revealed, that would be for me to speak of a sight I have yet to behold.

            Perhaps, the Lord who created the mountain shall allow us to see clearly, no longer through darkened eyes. But I have a hunch that those new eyes required to see in full are not ours until we crest the cloud. Many climbing parties, called denominations, are dogmatic assertions of a sight not yet seen in full, heights yet to be reached. I pray I do not err too much in this way. I only hope to tell the mountain’s Story; for it is the most beautiful Story I have ever known.

If I trip, please forgive me. Like you, I am just trying to be faithful…for I love this Story so much. If we must be dogmatic, then let it be with the only inarguable point of this Great Story; God, the craftsman who molded our hearts from the earth of his mountain, is unchangingly in love with his creation. If we must be dogmatic, let us recite this statement over and over when the cold rains soak through our shoes and the taunting voices play in our heads during those bitter, dark nights. You know the nights I speak of; for we all brave them, those of us who climb at least.

            The following is what my Father has shown me, nothing more and nothing less. They are reflections on this Great Story. This Story is bloody and it is scarring. But I believe it to be the story of existence, a fairy tale if you will. For nowhere else has my soul felt more at rest than upon this untamed, and yet quite wondrously, good mountain.

            I stand at one point and write one set of reflections, huddling in the cold wind as the core of the mountain chuckles, though some may say it is only groaning. I think it both. For that is the heart of those who climb this mountain. They laugh with joy from the bottomless cavern of their unseen soul; yet they moan to reach the top, now. The trick, I hope, is to look out during these periods of rest and drink in the majesty of the countryside. Words fail here. But as I said earlier, give me your hand and I’ll pull you up. And then we shall climb together.