And in the end…there is love.

(Ten points if you get my title reference!)
I miss the mountains. Growing up, our family vacations always consisted of a drive through the gently rolling Blue Ridge or Smoky Mountains. We would load up the cooler with sandwich fixin’s and head out to the parkway, and just drive. We’d pull over at a scenic rest area, sit at a shaded picnic table, and just enjoy the sweeping view of the vistas.

My college was nestled in the mountains. Every morning I would look out of my dorm room and see the slope of the mountain, sometimes blazing with colors, sometimes green and lush, sometimes laden with snow. The best view was when the fog was rolling over the tops of the ridge like wispy lava. It was beautiful.

For seven summers I went to a camp with the most spectacular view of the mountains. The hike was grueling but the second you stumbled through the trees onto a jutting rock, you forgot all about your aching calves and blisters. It would literally bring me to tears each time.

And now, I live in the midwest. It’s not so bad, and it’s not completely flat, but there are still days when I crave the mountains. Mountains always made me feel safe, like they were blocking out some unforseen danger.

Today when I was driving, out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw mountains. The clouds were stacked just right, and the setting sun played a trick on my eyes. It felt like God was giving me a tiny gift of mountains right here in Hannibal.

It was nice.