I love the mountains. There is something wild and glorious and wonderful in them. It sings to me, calls to me, speaks to a part of me that nothing else quite matches.
Nearly every photo I see of the mountains does something for my soul, simultaneously quenching and igniting a hunger. I miss the mountains when I am away from them. I crave their rugged and majestic beauty.
Yet even when I am surrounded by rocky mountain wilderness, absolutely immersed in their beauty, I still sense that something is missing. Something is still not quite as it should be.
For so long I thought that part of being a good Christian was to serve in ways that I hated. By some strange logic, I thought doing things that I was not passionate about or built for, on a regular basis, made me holier. No joke, the thought process crossed my mind more than once that I should do_______ because I hate it and that would be crucifying my flesh and make me more like Jesus.
For instance… tiny humans… I love my tiny human (and future tiny humans). And I might possibly love your tiny human in a one on one scenario. But put me in a room full of tiny humans and I want to run away screaming and/or tie up and gag all the tiny humans. My Mom, God bless her, is a Kindergarten teacher and LOVES it. And I spent enough time in and out of her classroom growing up to KNOW beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am NOT good with nor passionate about large groups of booger eaters.