I hate mountains.

Let me rephrase that—I hate driving through mountains. I've hated driving through mountains for as long as I can remember—just not my thing. The height, the cliffs, the cars whizzing around me wildly, the chaos, the big trucks, my ears popping, my stomach swirling—I hate all of it. 

But something happened recently that's changed my view on mountains.

My Grandma Louise—my grandmother, my friend, my mentor, my go-to source of help—passed away a few days ago; and grief butted it’s ugly head into my world.

Here is how mountains and grief collided:
I had been by my grandmother's side for the past few days watching her body prepare to pass from this mortal world. I sat through countless tears from family members and my own. I watched as my once vibrant, vivacious grandmother had been reduced to a small heap of bones. I watched as she was given morphine and she became void to the world around her. 

After a few days, my husband and I piled into a rental car and started the long, arduous drive home from Sacramento to Arizona, a twelve-hour adventure. We had originally flown into Sacramento, but midway through the flight my sinus area felt like it was going to crack my skull open. It was the worst pain I've ever felt on a plane. And, since I didn't want to recreate the pain, we opted to drive home instead of fly home. 

Driving Interstate 5, we talked and laughed and cried. I'd left behind my grandmother who was still hanging on, still fighting to remain in this world. Then, just as we approached the mouth of the Grapevine, a steep mountain canyon, my phone rang. 

"Hello, Carol?" It was my Aunt Terri.

"Yes."

"Grandma has passed." She said a few other words; I don't remember what and we quickly hung up. 

Conveniently, we were approaching the off ramp to a large outlet mall with restaurants, so Chris pulled over. We decided to rest a while at the outlet malls and get something to eat. Relax. Regroup. Breathe.

It was at that moment, while sitting in a Firehouse Subs, the tears started.  A tidal wave of sadness mixed with longing, seeped through the tiny cracks of my bravery and I started crying—hard. The kind of tears where you don’t care who sees you or what they are thinking. The kind of tears that seem to come directly from your heart to your eyes—deep sorrow.

We sat and talked for a long time, trying to find some peace before we journeyed on. Chris ate food, while I sipped on a Coke. He let me talk about my Grandma Louise and we both reminisced in our good memories of her. But, after about an hour we knew we needed to get back on the road. Mountains--I had to face them. Fear and anxiety joined hands and nestled into my chest. My mind reeled with worry--sinus pain, chaotic cars, dizzying anxiety--ugh.

I looked up at the mountains from the parking lot and cringed. I didn't want to go through them. I wanted to stay safely on the other side of the mountain, forever. But, I knew the reality. I had to push through the pain in my sinuses, the anxiety that came with the chaos, if I ever wanted to get home. 

"We have to through the mountains," Chris said. "It's only about an hour."

An eternity. "I know. But what if the sinus pain comes back?" 

"You'll be fine. You can do it." He comforted me. He was right.

Seatbelt fastened, music on, and heartbeat rising; we journeyed toward the looming mountain. Sure enough, as we started to ascend the mountain the pressure in my sinus area started to increase in pain. But, it was surprisingly bearable. The large diesel trucks clunked forward like weary dinosaurs and cars whizzed by us like hostile bees. My anxiety ran high one minute and then disappeared the next. It was bizarre. 

After an hour, we arrived safely on the other side of the mountain. My anxiety subsided, as did the pressure in my sinuses.

I felt like God had given me a big object lesson—the mountain and my grief.

No one wants to go through grief, just like I didn't want to go through the mountain. We stand on one side of the mountain and want to be safe, keep things familiar, happy, joyful, filled with life. We want to stay on the side of the mountain that feels secure and warm and cozy.

No one wants to go through grief. The whirlpool of emotions—regret, helplessness, hopelessness, sadness, despair—are complicated and complex. But, trudge forward we must, just like the mountain. With crazy drivers, buzzing motorcycles, large trucks, popping ears, upset stomachs—it has to be done. 

It's part of the journey.

It's part of your journey and mine. 

I haven't yet ascended the mountain of grief, my grandmother only passed a few days ago, but I look forward to the day when I can look back at the mountain of grief I went through and sigh with relief. When I can see the changed woman I've become from a difficult, hard process. When I can look back and say, "Wow, I did it." 

Until then, I'm still in the beginning stages of driving through my mountain; moments of laughter at funny memories, followed by deep waves of sorrow. 

I pace forward through the mountain, one mile at a time, knowing in the end what awaits me--home.













Why Mountains Are Like Grief

January 19, 2018


I'd like to add one more goal to your list of resolutions for this new year; if you don't mind.

Jump to Jesus.

Let me explain.

I was reading the New Testament the other morning, in the book of John, about the resurrected Christ and his miracles. When suddenly I found a new little nugget of information that excited me.

Physically. Spiritually. Emotionally.

At this point in the story, Jesus has already been crucified and has appeared to his disciples in the flesh. But, he leaves them again. The disciples are left alone, likely wondering if and when they might see Jesus again, with the emphasis on if.

Peter says to the other disciples (he's got six of them with him): "I'm going out to fish." Remember, he was basically telling them, "I'm going to work," since he was a fisherman by trade.

"We'll go with you," The other six disciples tell him. Off they go to fish in the Sea of Galilee.

They fished all night and ended up catching zero. Zilch. Nada. Nothing.

I put myself in Peter's shoes while I was reading. He's likely filled with hope and also discouragement. His master, his best friend is gone and he is unsure of when he will see him again. I'm betting he felt like he was doing the same old thing again—fishing—when he had just finished walking besides the Savior of the world doing miracles, healing people, and sitting at the feet of Jesus. I'm thinking fishing wasn't too exciting for him at that moment.

Then things change. Fast.

Suddenly, a stranger from the shore of the Sea of Galilee shouts out to the disciples on the boat. "Hey, Friends, haven't you caught any fish?"

"No," They answer back.

"Throw your net on the right side of the boat and you will find some fish," The stranger yells out to the disciples. They listen to this stranger and a large number of fish filled the net, so large they couldn't even haul it in. The boat leans to the right.

The epiphany hits Peter. Nets. Fish. Miracles.

Surely, this is Jesus. His Savior.

"It is the Lord!" As soon as Peter heard him say it he wrapped his outer garment around him—for he had taken it off—and jumped into the water.

Boom. There it is.

The second he knew it was Jesus on the shore—he jumped.

He didn't wait for the nets to get gathered up. He didn't wait for the fish to be pulled onto the boat. He didn't wait for the other guys to make a decision together. He didn't wait to turn the boat around. He didn't wait for anything.

He just jumped.

Off the boat.

In his clothes. 

And into the Sea.

Wow.

It hit me like a ton of bricks when I was reading it. The other disciples took the necessary precautions and gathered the fish and their supplies. The other disciples followed in the boat, towing the net full of fish.

Not Peter.

The minute he knew it was Jesus—he jumped.

I stopped and asked myself. If I knew Jesus was on the shore would I jump to him? Or would I stay safely in the boat?

My answer: I'd jump (even into the sea).

In our day and age, Jesus is at the shoreline of our lives. Daily. He walks the shores of our problems, concerns, broken hearts, lost dreams, grief, heavy burdens, and our loss. He walks the shoreline of our lives when we lose a job, or don’t get the house, or lose a long-time friendship, or get the bad news about our health. He walks the shoreline of our lives when we sign the divorce paperwork or as we hold the hand of a loved one dying. He walks the shoreline of our deepest anguish and our strongest anxieties. He walks the shoreline of our self-doubt, our pessimism, and our longing to belong.

He never leaves the shoreline.

He waits patiently for us to come to Him.

My goal is to be like Peter. To jump to Jesus. To jump into his arms. To jump into his safety. To jump into the beauty of his words I can find written so eloquently in the scriptures. I don't want to wait until I think I need him, when my nets are dry. I don't want to unhook the fishing nets. I don't want to carefully concern myself with the large amount of fish I've got to haul in. I don't want to turn my boat around or wait and try and figure out if it is actually Jesus at the shoreline.

The minute I need him. I'm jumping.

Clothes on.

Shoes on.

Messing up my hair and running my mascara.

Getting my clothes wet.

I'm jumping with two feet deep into the Sea of Galilee to meet Jesus at the shoreline of my life, my sorrow, my anxiety, my depression, and the deepest parts of me that need to be filled. Jumping to Jesus means reading my bible and praying daily. It means when the world seems too dark or the circumstances seem too dim, I'll find a quiet place and talk to him. I'll beckon him from the shoreline and wave my hands in the air, "I see you, Jesus. I'm coming!"

Then, like Peter, I'm jumping to Jesus.





Why it's Important to Jump to Jesus

January 1, 2018

Slider

Latest Pins

Get in touch!

Social Icons

Join the community!

Instagram