Bear with me, because this story is beginning where all kooky tales start – in the middle.  There is a reason for this.  Our current journey would have been completely impossible any other way.  How else do I explain who this woman is signing my name, gazing back at me from my mirror, and yet doing totally unexpected things?  I could give you the punch line and many of you would never question it.  Those of you who know me better are going to recognize right away that I am not who I was. For you, and those like me, I going to tell you a little bit about what happens when God moves a mountain.  

The bible is full of one liners which we quote freely and rarely think about too deeply. I sat looking at the peak a while back thinking about just that.   The mountain is massive from any angle. It rises up from the dry prairie into the clouds and there is no missing it from miles and miles away.  Clinging to its base are clusters of houses and  small communities.  

The whole metaphor struck me that day.  If that mountain moved, a whole lot in the foothills would be disturbed.  So it is in life. When God moves a mountain it doesn't usually just vanish neatly one day.  It is messy around the edges where the roots lie exposed and foundations are shaken. Things you hadn't realized were connected are disrupted. There is a whole new horizon.  You no longer scale its craggy heights or journey all the way around through its canyons. You just move on through.  It takes time to accustom yourself to its absence and this new way of doing things. 

My mountain was fear and has been a landmark in my life as long as I can remember. Not a conscious choice, but embedded early on.  I had arranged a lot so as to work around it. I was convinced it was pretty well contained and off in the distance but the truth is that it was an imposing barrier blocking us from much opportunity, despite the fact that it was totally inconsistent with my larger view of life.  Then a number of things happened very quickly and the mountain started to quiver.  I found myself waking as a slightly different person each morning and it has taken us all some getting used to.  

Most people are familiar with Frank Gilbreth's Cheaper by the Dozen.  The glimpse into his family which has long stuck with me came from the sequel to that book, Belles on their Toes, which doesn't extend the story so much as fills it in.  His description of his mother after their father died made a big impression, and was oddly one of the things that came to my mind last fall when things began to change:

"There was a change in Mother after Dad died. A change in looks and a change in manners. . . .

While Dad lived, Mother was afraid of fast driving, of airplanes, of walking alone at night. When there was lighting, she went in a dark closet and held her ears …

Now, suddenly, she wasn’t afraid any more, because there was nothing to be afraid of. Now nothing could ever upset her because the thing that mattered most had been upset. None of us ever saw her weep again."

I thought of her often and how that transformation took place.  This was not a weak incompetent woman.  She was well-educated, accomplished, and strong enough to bear a dozen children naturally and raise them up admirably. Yet she was brought to her knees with terror nonetheless.  She always had my sincere empathy. 

When my grandmother died, some of my 'things that mattered most' were upset. Instead of falling apart, however, it became the first step to healing.  It feels too new some days to say 'never again' and perhaps that is part of my hesitation to proclaim over-boldly. I am still getting to know the me I am becoming and writing about this person feels awkward at times. But I like her.  I am proud of her. And I will get this all out as I am able to.