Coming Down the Sacred Mountain
From Momentary Glimpses of Glory to Full Sight
Yesterday my eyes were fixed on the snow covered mountains of Lake Tahoe and the shimmer of the largest alpine lake on the continent.
Today they rest on orange construction signs and mounds of carved up earth beside a bulldozer in Dallas. New developments rapidly obstruct my views of once endless horizons.
I always dread coming back here.
It is tempting to believe God must somehow be nearer there.
Among the mountain I know only He can move. Sitting on the sand as ocean waves only He could calm rush at my feet.
He is just as much here with me on this cracked slab of concrete in north Texas as He is when I am touching snow in Big Sky, Montana or nestled in the Black Hills of South Dakota. Yet, I am always chasing the wonders of His creation anywhere other than where I’ve been planted.
I haven’t been back to Lake Tahoe since college. One of my friend’s families owned a home there. I still remember the drive as we twisted and turned along the highway, enveloped in evergreen trees. My friend Michael was agnostic at the time. I told him I couldn’t comprehend how he failed to see God’s glory in creation. Especially here.
But you would not scold a blind man for not being able to see the sunset.
He humored me. Later he led our group on a hike down the north shoreline of the lake. The memory is as vivid as yesterday: watching him reach up and pull back a low tree branch suddenly revealing a panoramic view of the icy blue water stretching between the mountains.
Almost 20 years later, a shared moment still makes me laugh. In a comical voice, intending jest with understated reverence, as though the Heavens were narrating themselves, he proclaimed:
“Here, Kelly….
HERE IS YOUR GOD.”
Michael is now a brother in Christ. I marvel at the quiet providence of God. Glory hidden until the day God opens the eyes to see it.
Nothing else has changed. Still, I cannot quite articulate the peace that settles over me as I stand in awe of His creation. Yet, it is so tangible I can carry it with me like a treasured book whose pages I can revisit anytime.
My travels awaken a homesickness no place on Earth can truly satisfy. Like Israel longing for the Promised Land, I am desperate for a glimpse into eternity where the longings of my soul will finally be realized.
I feel solidarity with my brother Peter on the Mount of Transfiguration. I find it hard to move my feet from the large rock along the shoreline of Sand Harbor Beach in Nevada. ‘We should build shelters and remain here.’ I understand Peter’s impulse now. The veil between earth and Heaven feels thin, as if glory may peek through. A deep anxious apprehension takes ahold of me, reminding me that soon I must combat my instinct to stay here. And drag my feet back down the mountain with the disciples and return to the life that lives just short of glory.
Before I descend, I gaze one last time upon the majesty of the mountains, and hear echoes of John’s words.
“We have seen His glory, the glory of the one and only.” (John 1:14)
On days like these I meditate on the kindness of God to give us glimpses of His glory.
The backdrop in front of me is just a preview of the coming new Heaven and new Earth.
Where righteousness will dwell.
And my spiritual restlessness will be no more.
2 Peter 3:13
The Father is faithful when I am not. His patience never runs out. He is slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love. He lets me wrestle with Him and lament my foolish discontentment. Still, he blesses me with small trips all over the country so that I can taste a morsel of the Kingdom to come.
He reminds me that His miracles are not only found surveying a rainbow above a lush green valley sandwiched between mountains in the north, nor are they limited to the coastline of California or the Carolinas. Sometimes they sneak up on me in the ordinary moments I overlook every day.
The wonders of His creation are in the smile of my five year old boy. In the small voice that calls me, “Mama Girl.” In the footsteps of his little feet on the floors of this beautiful suburban home I often take for granted. I see them in the arms of my compassionate ten year old that wrap around my shoulders when she senses I could use a hug.
His mercies are in the squeeze of my husband’s hand as we leave destinations I long to stay and begin the familiar drive to the airport bound for Texas.
And in the faithful teachings of the local church He led me to in my thirties. One of my most obvious blessings, for it has grown my knowledge of God’s character and sovereignty. And guides me to lasting peace.
They’re in the faces around the dining table of an elder’s house, -faithful church members who let me pray with tears streaming down my face as I plead with the Lord for the salvation of those I love, amazed that grace reached me first.
And in the prayers of a new friend who sat at the dining table that night. She heard my pleas and prayed that the Lord would restore to me the joy of my salvation. In His mercy, He did.
They’re in the fellowship of the small group I meet with every Wednesday night to share a meal, worship, and study scripture with. These nights challenge us to pick up our cross and boldly evangelize, shaping us as disciples. With them, I don’t walk back down the mountain alone.
So, for the first time returning from my travels, I do not resist being here. I do not fantasize about packing a bag and being anywhere but here. I don’t count the days until my next trip to a beautiful place where I can feel closer to Him.
Instead, I thank God for this mundane slab of concrete underneath my feet in north Dallas. It’s windy today, and I feel the rush of fresh air against my face, like a whisper from the mountain. For a moment it almost feels like an embrace. Another postcard from Heaven.
Gratitude anchors me.
I feel Him in the steady beat of my own heart and in each step along this uneven sidewalk, knowing He has sovereignly assigned me to be exactly here in this very moment.
I thank Him for His mercy.
For pulling back the branch for me, opening my eyes to the truth of the Gospel I once could not see.
I rejoice over knowing my name has been written in the Book of Life. Certain the glimpses I’ve witnessed are only the beginning of my eternal wonder.
There is delight in my surroundings knowing that the Holy Spirit dwells here because He dwells in me.
For I know that Heaven does not meet earth in any place I could travel to on foot or by plane.
Heaven meets earth in a person.
In Jesus Christ.
It is a Savior who has already come to meet me here.
Every ache of my soul comforts me with the evidence that this world is not my home.
While I’m here, I will worship Him as I sit at a red light on a back country road, gazing upon yet another construction zone.
The full sight of His glory lies on the horizon.
The enthroned Lamb himself is all the Heaven we desire. -Charles Spurgeon