He carries his guitar case and she carries her laptop and Canon, each their own joy and instruments of rest. Their climbing shoes wait on the deck and a fresh pound of coffee is set on the counter ready to grind and brew. Their children play miles away with eager grandparents for the weekend away and this is sabbatical.
They come to hear sounds of birds nesting and wind in branches and to see stars splashed like glitter in night’s sky. To walk on fallen leaves and dust. Helmets wait below for rides on ATVs through trails unseen by paved roads. This is the cabin. She has come here her whole life and he found home on top of this hill at first visit.
They come to Hear. In the stillness of mountain air where help comes from, they greet their Maker and wait. They prepare food and eat outside and wash dishes and clean and they wait. They heal in the stillness and they are together.
He reads Jayber Crow by Wendell Berry and she reads The Pastor by Eugene Peterson and there is haven here. Grilled tri tip and corn and wine and beer and their bellies are full and they are full. Thanks is given and not forgotten and they taste and see and God is Good.
ATVs wild with adventure beckon afternoon riding. Dusty trails following roots and ravines guide them up the mountain. He leads and she follows, often playing catch up after technical climbs in low gear. They see the boulder and park; shoes narrow and tight with rubber on feet steady their climb up the great rock. He spots and she doubts but victory is in the strong will. It has been over four years since the shoes were worn and they are glad for the breaking in. Boulders spotted along the way and they ride and stop to climb. This reminds of their beginning and mountain air is theirs to inhale. Pieces of identity put into place.