I Just Can't See It
Other people in Vermont climb one of our local mountains for the view. Some head down to a boat launch or a state park along the water’s edge to catch a glimpse of the Adirondacks reaching down to dip their toes into Lake Champlain. Some folks, if they are lucky enough, have this incredible view from the privacy of their own home. I have a smidge. Peering through the window above my kitchen sink, I can see Giant Mountain, with its scraped white face looking back at me over my neighbor’s trees. And from my bedroom window, if I take the time to look before heading downstairs in the morning, I can pull back the curtain and greet Mr. Giant and his fellow peaks, standing sure and stately some twenty-five miles away. But even from there, the trees block much of the view.
The best view (and most accessible for me) is a few miles down a back road from my house, on the crest of a hill. There’s a place where I can pull off the road, across from a farmer’s field, and from the warmth of my car, take in the grandeur. Snow-covered corn fields and empty pastures spread out in the valley below me with barbed-wire fences and dirt roads marking off property lines. A long, curving row of bare maple trees outlines the creek, their spindly hands reaching up from the icy banks. Far across the valley, a cemetery on a little ridge is dotted with grey tombstones, dirty against the white ground, but no less cold. I pull my coat tighter around my shoulders and look farther out, toward the mountains.
But today, I cannot see them. Todays’ milky haze hangs like a white velvet curtain in front of the Adirondacks, and the view which I so desperately sought is strangely hidden. “Oh.” I hear myself sigh audibly. It’s as if the mountains are totally gone. Vanished. As if someone took this beautiful painting in front of me and brushed over the background with a thick, pallid grey acrylic. Honestly, if I hadn’t seen those mountains a thousand times before, I might not believe you if you told me they were there behind that gloomy haze.
But mountains or no mountains, I have come here today to pray. So I take a deep breath despite the disappointing view, and begin. Except, I don’t know where to begin. I’m not sure I even have the words. For lack of a better idea, I decide to start reciting a passage I’ve been working on memorizing. It’s from the 14th chapter of John. And as I whisper the words to myself, it’s as if God is whispering them right back to me.
“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me.”
Thus begins some of Jesus’ final words to his disciples before going to the cross. Consider how those words must have sounded to them. The future looks bleak. Jesus has warned them of what is about to happen, and they are scared, confused. They don’t see how this could turn out right. “Do not let your hearts be troubled,” he tells them. “Trust in God, trust also in me.”
I sit staring out at the nothingness, and quietly think about an issue that is on my heart. It’s heavy, like that veil between me and the mountains. Granted, it is not quite as grim as the prospect of being crucified, but like the disciples, I am wondering how this could ever work out. It seems impossible.
“I just don’t see it, Lord.”
I think of a sister who is overwhelmed with grief.
Do not let your hearts be troubled.
I think of a brother who cannot seem to get a handle on his addiction.
Trust in God; trust also in me.
I think of a friend who is terrified about a recent diagnosis.
Do not let your hearts be troubled.
I think of my own muscle weakness, and the recent struggles I’ve been having with simple tasks around the house. I keep re-injuring my shoulder trying to push myself up out of my kitchen chair. What happens when I can’t do it anymore?
Trust in God; trust also in me.
“I don’t see it, Lord.”
Believe me, the mountains are there.
Trust me. You just can’t see them.
Suzanne Rood is the author of A LIMP OF FAITH (Credo House Publishers, 2019), her story of daily life with CMT, a hereditary neuropathy that challenges her walking, her music, and her faith. Here’s a link to purchase the book on Amazon.
