Heading Home in Fog
We’ve had springtime weather here, cool and damp, with promises of rain hanging in the sky. I’m leaving work, destined for home. It’s a short drive, as commutes go: the city gives way to countryside in only seven miles.
When I reach the cows on a hillside above the intersection marked by St. Michael’s Abbey and the biker bar, I turn right.
Then I trace along our narrow, winding road for four miles as it wriggles along the root of the mountain that shelters our canyon. Next I’m two simple turns from our little street, where oaks shade and coyotes ramble down the creekbed early in the morning, disrupting the chickens.
And all the way, our mountain leans to me from the east, benign and beckoning, a beacon.
Come home, the mountain calls. I’m waiting.
We’ve knit our lives into the corner where the mountain kneels upon earth, among neighbors and a general store, parades and a church. She looms over all of it, visible even from the freeway that slices through the city, a sign.
When I imagine my husband continuing on without me, he’s here, in our home tucked in beneath this mountain.
But on this day, our mountain is coy, hiding herself behind clouds that pledge showers.
Fearlessly, I climb into my truck, buckle in, ignite the engine. I point the truck east. I drive, passing grocers, bars, gas stations, taco stands, the occasional restless highrise, all the city bits. I’m driving eastward, towards home, towards my mountain.
She’s there, that sheltering mountain. Whether I see her or not, she’s there. She’s waiting.
And so I drive home, knowing.
Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.
Hebrews 11:1 (NASB)
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