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It was high school and our guest speaker that Wednesday evening was telling of the mountains. He remembered reaching a peak and seeing the mountain range stretching away before him. That’s the sort of view God has. Past, present, future.

It was an analogy I understood. I’d been backpacking since age eleven. I loved the mountains. I remembered being swathed in vine maples, bright yellowy-gold. I remembered heaps of boulders I always called the “troll rocks.” I remembered Anansi the Spider stories I told of moss-covered rocks.

It is here in our home that we rival the Alps. Marmots at Mt. Rainier. Wildflowers filling the meadows. Indian paintbrush, pink penstemon, panicled bluebells, pearly everlasting too! I sang in my off-key voice. Anemone turned into wispy “Old Man of the Mountain.” Some call it. To me, it’s just those troublesome trolls.

I’m sure heaven is full of mountains even more beautiful. Don’t be afraid. She leaps up the slopes without tiredness. It is the Garden of God.

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