I am the mountain

I walk the short distance to my parent's house, and I am in a cloud of yellow butterflies. My camera dangles about my neck, my computer slung over my shoulder. It's supposed to be a serious afternoon, writing papers, editing. But here I am in a swarm of yellow butterflies - the ones a friend calls cabbage butterflies and I push that name out of my mind because they are simply too beautiful to be linked to "cabbage" in any way. Click, click, click goes the shutter, but I can't capture their beauty, transparent iridescence in autumn afternoon sun, as they flit up from the green oats and loft into the shafts of sunlight coming through maples scarlet.

Perhaps this is another key on my joy hunt. Beauty is fleeting...indescribable...hard to put your finger on. Facts are easier, trials lending themselves to description. Health problems are so discrete, well-delineated. You can look them up in the dictionary and get a paragraph description.

There is no paragraph written to describe the soul's dance as the butterflies twirl carefree in a circle about you.

All this against a backdrop of gravelly tar, weeds in ditches, the sound of the puppies down the road caterwauling. The beautiful in the midst of the ugly.


The light is harsh on the cherry tree, barren now of leaves, it's fruit too bitter for the birds. A lone spider crafts his way from branch to branch, weaving lace between them. I stop to watch him work. What's he hurrying for? What happens to spiders in the winter anyway? Isn't he just working on the last stretch before his frozen death?

I push death back out of my mind and just see the maroon of the cherries and the white of the spider's lace. Force my mind onto the joy path again.


Over at the High Calling Focus, a prompt is posted: try to make rust beautiful. I find this ironic, because I've always loved rust. The only thing better than something new is something old, rusty, well-used, beautiful in it's old age. I have a hundred photos of rust. I take another just because. The rust flourishes out in florets from the center of an old gas can. It shines purple and red and orange in the sun. A smile flashes brilliant over my face, and I walk on.

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning. (James 1:17)

Gifts, every moment of every day. The child who is disobedient at nap time ends up huddled in a little ball next to me under the comforter while wind brings a storm over the valleys. The curry not spicy enough is beautiful in it's gold bowl. The hard work of therapy melts into strength and calm at the end, as this beloved therapist guides me quietly back from grief to joy. I stand in mountain pose, thinking this is the mountain God wants me to move with my mustard-seed faith.

This body, mind, soul...what He wants to mold and change and move. The mountains and hills answer to Him already. The rocks stand ready to shout His holy name. It is I from whom He begs praise and love.

I love you, Father. Thank you for these gifts overflowing from every moment of my day.


Got nothing in my hands to part these waves 
Got nothing in my bank account that saves 
Got no more might left to muscle through 
But Oh, I’ve got you 
I’ve got you 

Got demons gather ’round oh laugh it up 
Spreading doubts a plenty I can’t drink this cup 
Got no one left who thinks I’ll make it through 
But Oh, I’ve got you 
I’ve got you 

Got faded memories of better days 
Got a prayer that they’ll come back around my way 
You’ve got me and oh that gets me through 
Oh, I’ve got you I’ve got you 
Oh, I’ve got you I’ve got you 
~I've Got You, Shaun Groves~