Ascending the Mountain Mountains began to peak through the skyline as Grandpa drove into the misty elevation. His harmonica hummed as we sang, “How many crawdads can you eat, honey? How many crawdads can you eat, babe? How many crawdads can you eat? 40 daddies and a ham o’ meat, honey, baby, mine.” We sang hymns… I Know Who Holds Tomorrow. Feeling Grandpa’s prayers pouring over me as he drove in silence, I traced pictures of dogs in my “How to Draw Dogs” library book. Passing into Ohio, Kentucky, then into West Virginia, the elevation increased with our anticipation of what we would see next. Riding along, I gazed in awe of the brume upon majestic peaks in the skyline, then when in the thick solace of the hills, the evening sun bounced off the glorious reds, golds, and browns of the sandy stone carving our way through the mountain. I had never seen mountains like these glimmering formations with their markings like the rings of a tree towering high above the narrow ledges circling and winding through the beautiful grandeur of this country. Pressing my cheek to the glass inside the car and looking up as far as the confines of this car would allow, I could only see part way up the mountain. The vertical slope seemed to be unending. The place where the top met the sky was unfathomable. Faith told me there was a top and I imagined standing toes in that mystical earth and hands in the air, reaching toward heaven. I was used to the soft, green hills of Kentucky where we had vacationed previous summers. The great depth of this dry, rocky rainbow fell into a deep, green hollow. As I peered out the passenger window, there appeared to be no space between Grandpa’s car and the edge of those melted colors. At any minute we could fall Yet, I trusted that peacefully my fearless leader would lead us to our destination: a small community of houses nestled safely between mountains on all sides except for a narrow path leading to a busier road. By the last night in West Virginia, I had become a professional mountain climber and I had easily convinced Grandpa to relive the mountain climbing of his youth. We started up the side of the grassy hill moderately paced. Until that day, the highest I had climbed was halfway up to what I had believed to be the top. We reached that familiar height and stopped a moment to rest. Above us was the steepest part of the mountain which required hanging onto scrappy trees and limbs to pull one’s body higher and higher. Believing Grandpa would want to turn around and head back, I motioned that perhaps he would want to head back down to the house. I briefly pictured my Grandpa a 9-year-old boy in the hills of his home in Kentucky climbing, but faced the reality that this wise, white-haired man would not want to travel much longer. We half-joked about mountain lions as the sun began to set. After a brief standing rest, he said, “Let’s go higher.” So we pulled ourselves reaching and grabbing from branch to branch like children in fruit trees, reaching for the satisfaction of that sweet fruit. We drew up and up until we ascended the vertical height of the earth, which was beneath us, became beside us. Taking his hand to steady my balance, his arms bridged the gap of earth providing a sustaining presence among the patch of overgrown incline that I could not cross alone. This man who led me up this arrow, sat on a fallen tree, satisfied, looking upon the conquered perils down below. As he looked down the mountain toward the tiny houses beneath us, I watched him, the sun was dawning and the last light was peeking through the trees highlighting Grandpa’s silvery white hair. And like Moses on the mountain, communed with a heavenly presence, imparting that wisdom to us below. Yet, above him remained a way to go.  Even as far as we could climb, we had not yet elevated to the top of that cloudy obstacle. My leader, my guide, my dear, sweet Grandpa led me to this place that is forever stuck in my memory. We stopped, not defeated, but breathing in the fresh, crisp, spring, mountain air, we were filled without needing to see the top of the mountain. Looking beyond, to those steps which we have not yet crossed, the sacred ground kept rising, beyond us, beyond our comprehension, up to the sky. Pointing our way to God.