What Mountain?

The sign read “Course Closed.” We really expected that. The golf course is always closed when there is ice or snow, and this day patches of snow lay along the fairways and in the roughs about as often as sand traps. A thin coat of ice covered the center of the ponds that dot the course, but around the edges the water lay still and clear. The water was so clear that one could occasionally see golf balls lying along the bottom. I wondered if any of them were ones I had put there, the result of many errant shots.

But on this afternoon, my wife Pat and I were not at the country club to play golf. We only wanted to walk the course to get some exercise and enjoy the beauty of the mountain setting. Previous days we had hiked along wooded mountain trails pausing to enjoy the rippling sounds and sights of the numerous streams etching paths for themselves down the steep slopes.

In truth, we also stopped to catch our breath a few times as we climbed up and down and around the Appalachian hillsides we so much enjoy. Even in winter, the vistas from a rocky outcropping can be breathtaking.

This day the goal was a more leisurely experience. The walk would be between five and six miles, but it would be an easy trek along well mown fairways.

Two pickup trucks sat in the parking lot next to the clubhouse when we arrived, but there was not another person in sight. We had the whole course to ourselves.

The air was damp, a little misty, as we began our walk down the first fairway. The clouds lay low. They were heavy and gray and dark. If it stormed, we would not be too far away from shelter, either a shelter on the course or our car.

As we walked, we talked about memories from other trips around the course, of the deer that sometimes hide in the mountain laurel, about the red fox Pat had seen on a green, about the different kinds of birdhouses along the edge of the woods and the birds that live in them, about the flowers of spring and the colors of fall. It really is a beautiful course.

We looked at the houses along the course. They appeared closed for the season — no signs of life inside or out. We talked about what we liked about this one and what did not appeal to us about that one.

Approaching one hole, Pat shared that the house on the far side of the green had the best view on the course. She explained that from the house, one looks across the green, down the fairway and into the mountain. It is a beautiful view anytime of the year, she said.

Looking back over my shoulder, I said, “What mountain?” The reply took her aback. The answer was obvious. The mountain almost surrounded that side of the golf course. But when Pat turned, there was no mountain in sight. A wall of clouds roared in from our right to our left. It was as if we were watching an inverted flash flood. We could see the front line of the cloud wall not more than 100 feet off the ground and not more than 100 yards behind us. The misty view that had been ours during the entire walk gave way to obscurity. Behind the cloud wall, nothing was visible.

The clouds were like an upside-down volcano. They were boiling, spewing countless shafts of cloud to the ground as if they had exploded from some deep inner force. The cloud shafts hit the ground and then almost bounced back into the air. They swirled and bubbled and exploded again. We stood on the fringe of the green almost motionless, numbed by the frightening grandeur and power of the moment.

A little later we sat by the apple box, always filled with ripe red apples in the summer but empty on this winter day, and reflected on what we had witnessed. It was sudden. It was dramatic. It was powerful. It was consuming.

We talked about how incidents in life are like that moment. One can be walking life’s way only to be jarred by some sudden, unexpected development. It is dramatic, frequently frightening. It is powerful.  It pulls us into itself and will not let us go until we have come to grips with this new thing. For a time, it consumes us as if nothing else in life counts but this incident.

Broken relationships, accidents, illness, disappointments, death, loss — we all know such moments. They bubble and boil and spew. They turn our worlds upside down. They numb our senses. They alter our vision. It is easy to get lost in these storms.

In such times, we sometimes cry, “What mountain?” Where is the mountain we have seen time and time again? Where is the mountain that has helped mark our path? Where is the mountain whose beauty we have enjoyed? Where is the mountain that has been a part of our life? Where is God?

Had Pat and I retraced our steps, we would have walked into the mountain. Had we stood still long enough, the clouds would have lifted and we would have seen the mountain was still there even though the wall of clouds hid it from our sight at the moment. It was still as tall, still as strong, still as beautiful as ever. The problem was us. The clouds obscured our vision.  How foolish it would have been of us to conclude that just because we could not see the mountain for the clouds, that the mountain had moved.

It is just as foolish to think God is not by one’s side in the midst of life’s storms. God is still God. The One who said “I am with you always” does not leave us alone. He is there when tears stain our faces as well as when smiles brighten them. He is there to guide when we feel lost in life’s storms as well as when sunshine lights our path. He is there to console when we feel broken as well as encourage when we feel strong. The God who has been part of our lives before the storm is our God during the storm.

“In all things,” God promises to work.