Taller Mountains

Of babies and buttes.

When I past pondered God’s glory, I thought most of mountains. Of hand-sculpted peaks and molded stacked boulders. Like Psyche of Till We Have Faces, the God of the mountain had been wooing me all my life. The Jesus of Scripture used his own stoney peaks and grassy meadows to teach me that I was small and his beauty great. Still, I barely have the words for the Sierra Nevadas of my youth. Even in memory, the spectacular spires of Mt. Whitney against the desert sky take my breath away. I think perhaps in heaven, the Sierras will be there, fulfilling their purpose completely.

Now, when I consider the Lord’s might, I consider the smallest of things, and this does more for me than mountains. I think most of the moment when from me and on me was pulled and placed a morning glory of a girl. Every day the moment grows. (Does God work backward in time?) When she grins her joyous grin, when she rolls over and struggles to roll back, when her nose is blocked with sickness, when she babbles in the backseat of the car interrupting a conversation, when she smiles with her dad’s crinkled eyes - it grows. And I think that moment will grow tall. Taller than the mountains of my youth.