The church service was concluding as everyone stood to sing the closing hymn, as the older woman leaned into my earshot and told me of an interesting place to eat that she owned high up in the mountain. “It’s a nice place. It’s really well managed, but those dryers have been such a torment. You’ll have to try it out sometime.”
Why not today? Before I knew it, we, for supposedly the lady that had mentioned the novel eating establishment and hotel was the proprietor, insisted on taking us there and accompanied us on the bus that was now driving us up the mountain. There was an amicable conversation fluttering through the transport as the driver, who didn’t seem to be present, maneuvered the craft on the long gravel road that maintained a continual ascent. As I half listened, my eyes kept ahead through the front glass of the large church van and noticed that the road was becoming ever more steep. In fact, high upon the horizon where the roadway vanished, the top of the mountain appeared as a massive wave, a land tsunami, the crest curling over so that the road itself, should we manage to maintain our current course direction, would take us on an almost inverted path of travel. Meaning, that as we approached, what I feared most began to transpire. Those who weren’t buckled into their seats were now hanging from whatever they could grab onto to keep from being tossed into the roof of the bus, which had suddenly become the floor. We were heading into the tube of the wave, the inversion of reality, myself finding my grip slowly weakening until I knew that if this lasted much longer, I would find myself thrashed about the insides of this vessel, as a stone being tossed about in the tumbler of a stone polishing machine. Trying to see where the non-existent driver was, for now, it became apparent that there was only some spirit in control; I tried to careen my head so that the wave of earth, road, and gravel seemed to be about to thrash our transport into the depths of the valleys below, we remarkably exploded through the crest. We flew through the air, landing with a tremendous bump on the opposite side of the peak, rumbling down the heavily wooded backroad. An instant of thought revealed the map of our destination, or perhaps a screen within the machine that carried us displayed it, one cannot discern. For there before us, was the image of the winding mountain road, through hairpin after hairpin curves threaded tortuously between massive boulders and outcroppings, till it reached an almost magical structure built on the cusp of the mountainside, overlooking the expanse before, as if on the very top of the world.
We pulled up to the wrap-around front porch of the darkly wood-siding structure our hostess called the utopia of mountains. Like bewildered cats trying to stand after having been tossed about in some pet carrier, we exited the bus, wobbly, hair and clothing disheveled, each being wondering where we had landed. The wide front steps reached a welcoming, extensive porch lined with rocking chairs and an abundant amount of comfortable seating. Staff, both from the institution, who wore golf shirts with the emblem of the hotel embroidered on the left chest of their shirts, that managed the obscure resort, but folks from Cracker Barrel scurried about, each intent upon serving their guests, many of whom were seated at random tables or chairs accompanied with smaller end tables on the porch and inside the massive, log complex.
“Make yourselves at home,” our hostess shouted as she quickly disappeared into the depths of the establishment, barking orders to staff as she passed.
Following her orders, I found myself wandering from room to room. I happened upon some remote alcove in which a Middle Eastern man, well dressed, with clothing as manicured as his hair, was fretting over the condition of the dryer in which he had placed his clothes. “It’s just now drying,” he retorted, confounded by the diabolical machine. I walked up and immediately noticed lent stuck around some stem, like a lever that was to be opened if need be. I haphazardly reached up and pulled the knob outward, and immediately there was a rush of hot air spewing dryer lent out as if gasping for breath; whereupon, the sound of the tumbler tossing his clothes inside seemed to take on a normal hum of proper operation. Perhaps a green led lit that had previously been red. His face glowed with relief. “Thank you, my friend,” he said, extending his hand to shake mine.
“My pleasure. Where are you from,” I asked, noticing a lot of international guests rambling about.
“I’m from Iran,” he said, smiling with a broad white toothy grin. “We come here because this place is known far and wide for its hospitality and tranquility – closer to God if you will.”
Then I awoke, realizing another dream, maybe not flying this time, nonetheless, the disheveled feeling of having been tossed about. Sitting my feet on the floor, my thoughts turned to prayers as the comforting feeling of being loved unconditionally by a Father who would share with me the excitement of adventure, if only in sleep, and was there for me to lead me through the day. His covenant is to love us even if we fail to love Him.
Sometimes, it takes an inverted bus ride up a tsunami of a mountain to get our attention, making us aware that the life we lead can easily be turned inside out, leaving us in despair and confusion. Trusting in our heavenly Father to lead us, we can rest in the assurance that everything will be set right in the end, even if we must pass through what seem insurmountable odds, through the darkest canyons of cancer and suffering. There will be joy in the morning.
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When it all comes down to the realization of the evidence to which we have been afforded over possibly a very lengthy portion of our lives, there comes a time to accept or at least to earnestly consider, that a gift, or a multitude of gifts, by which we have been blessed are our purpose through which God expects us to use to His glory. Like the finger upon the keyboard, on single tap, a note fills the air, and suddenly, our thoughts become transformed into a flowing stream of unending scenes of waterfalls, mountain meadows, and all manner of beautification to which we are drawn by the Spirit into an undulating dance of rapturous bliss and joy. Ann Lamott put it best: “Inspiration comes like a train moving through the landscape. You see it approaching while you’re hanging laundry or doing something mundane, and you have to race inside to catch it before the last car—the caboose—disappears.”[1]
