Some nights, I write because I have to. Not because of deadlines or pressure, but because writing late at night is my only refuge in a house that doesn’t slow down until after the ten o’clock news. You know the kind of nights I’m talking about. From the moment I walk in the door, life kicks into high gear.
The squeals of my daughters are my first greeting. Two pairs of little arms latch onto my knees before I can even set my bag down. A fuzzy-headed baby is placed in my arms, and my wife, looking relieved, plants a kiss on my lips. “The cavalry is here,” I declare, trying to sound heroic. “And none too soon,” she replies with a grin.
What follows is the predictable symphony of family life—giggles, clanging dishes, stubbed toes, toys tossed into baskets, and a bedtime chorus of “just one more song.” By the time the house finally quiets down, my wife goes to bed, and I retreat to the playroom. Except now, it isn’t just a playroom; it’s my study. In that small corner of stillness, accompanied by the hum of the dishwasher and the aroma of coffee, something sacred begins to stir.
Sometimes, if I listen closely enough, I hear it: the soft whisper of sandal-clad feet. A pierced hand reaches out, and I follow. Jesus invites me up the mountain, away from the cluttered chaos of the valley. It doesn’t happen every night. Some nights, I’m too tired to hear Him. Other nights, I hear but don’t go. But when I do, everything changes.
The mountain is a sacred place—a retreat where the noise of life fades, and the clarity of His truth comes alive. There, He reminds me of things I too often forget. “You’ll go nowhere tomorrow that I haven’t already been,” He whispers. “Truth will still triumph. Death will still die. And delight? It’s only one decision away—seize it.”
Can’t you tell the people who have been to His mountain? Life hits them just as hard as it does the rest of us. They face unmet budgets, canceled plans, and late-night worries. But somehow, they have a peace that doesn’t make sense. Their confidence isn’t in the valley but in the unchanging promises of the One who calls them higher.
I once read about a man who lived his life breathing the summit air. Even in his final days, he found peace in Jesus’ presence. A priest visiting him in the hospital noticed an empty chair beside his bed. The man explained, “I place Jesus on that chair and talk to Him like a friend.” When he passed away, his daughter found him with his head resting on that chair, as though he had leaned in one last time to hear the Savior’s voice.
That image stays with me. It’s a simple reminder that no matter how chaotic life gets, the mountain is always there, and Jesus is always waiting. He doesn’t ask for much—just that we pull up a chair, take a deep breath, and let Him guide us to His summit of peace.
If your life feels like a whirlwind, if the noise of deadlines and demands is drowning out your joy, let me remind you: the mountain is just a decision away. In His presence, you’ll find the clarity, strength, and delight you’ve been searching for. Stubborn joy—the kind that can stand firm no matter what—is born on that sacred peak.
So tonight, or tomorrow, or whenever you feel the weight of the valley pressing down, take a trip to His mountain. Pull up a chair, pour out your heart, and let Him remind you of the truths that never change. The air is clearer up there, the view sharper, and the peace unshakable.
Read more about creating sacred spaces in the everyday on Desiring God: “Make Time for the Mountain”
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