The Mountains Call Me Home

Home. The verb tense of home is described as the "return by instinct to its territory after leaving it". What kind of power is that?! Most importantly to me, how do you create that kind of home?

Like almost all of my explanations to life - the answer is complicated. I believe that to create a home, one has to be consistently exposed, by individuals who are significant to growth, in moments of life that are impactful, in ways that seem effortless, are bound in tradition, attached to moments of real sentiment, and are connected to life's real purpose. In the context of my life it looks something like this:

As a young child I was consistently exposed to aspects of the Appalachian culture. The Appalachian mountain ranges are where I call home. They serve as a background for my growth because that is where generations of my family, on both sides, grew up in. I specifically remember massive (120 people or better) camping out in tents, sleeping on air mattresses, hunkered on pull-out couches, recliners, and old porch swings once a year on Memorial Day weekend for our Mullins family reunion. Cousins would fly in, drive in, hike from one holler to the other just to gather on the top of Paradise Mountain in Knott County, KY. It was nestled in these mountains that I would wake to old hymns being sung, listen to tales of hunting explorations, bond over campfire stories, and witness masses of people pray intently for each other in dark seasons. This weekend was also the dedicated time we would hike up the mountain to the cemetery and place new flowers on each grave - together. Mothers, siblings, sons and daughters, great aunts, friends that were always considered family would have graveside church, before we would depart back to our daily lives. It wasn't just what we did, it is what we lived for - each other, on the foundation that if we stayed on the righteous path, we would never be apart.

I was 16 when I surrendered my life to God. I was baptized on Easter Sunday, which happened to be my birthday, in a small southern Baptist church on a hill in southeastern Kentucky surrounded by family. I was told the water was too cold that time of year to go down to the lake overlooking the mountains to be dunked in the water, but sometimes I still think of what that would be like, if that would have somehow made it mean any more. As a 16 year old girl I had already fought my share of demons. I had experienced loss, heartbreak, conflict and confusion, and real uncertainty of life and the impact of my decisions on not only my life, but the life of the family that has always tried to lead me in a path that I wouldn't steer from. Life was good. Little by little each year I began to notice traditions change with family passing, cousins aging, demands of jobs, and a focus shifting from extended family to intimate immediate family priorities. I never thought I would say that I remember "the last time" we were all together.

One of the most effective tactics evil uses to separate God's people from God is busyness. Prioritize people, activities, work, responsibilities, sprinkle in some holidays, give us the drive to be the best versions of ourselves with hobbies, intense ethics, add a dash of freedom, and before you know it you are entangled in a web of stress, doubt, secular acceptance, you are emotionally drained, and full of an overwhelming sense of defeat. It was my second semester of my junior year of college and I had lost myself to the world. I was working multiple jobs, busting my tail to remain top of my class, balancing friendships, exploring my limits with alcohol, and had hit a dead end road with any potential relationship. I was spiraling, I could feel it in my core, and I was scared. I was walking across campus after a particularly rough evening of overthinking instead of sleeping and for the first time since moving, three years prior I caught a glimpse of a ridgeline in the distance. I stopped dead in my tracks. There it was, softly tugging at my heart, to go to them. It took me 2 hours to google search the nearest hiking destination, The Pinnacles in Berea, pack a bag, and go.

I drove 25 minutes from Eastern Kentucky University's campus to The Pinnacles in Berea, and hiked 1.5 miles to the top. To be honest with you I have no memory of the hike, couldn't tell you how long it took, what trail I took, or if I saw a soul anywhere that day. What I do remember is the feeling I had as I peered down from what felt like the top of the world at the farms scattered below. The sky was the most radiant baby blue with not a single cloud in it. The silence was almost eerie - there were no birds singing, no wind blowing, no rustle of leaves from any wildlife - and in that silence I heard a voice say, "Sing to me." I sat on the edge of the rock overlook, unpacked my mothers old red hymnal from my pack, opened the book and as I read the title of the exposed hymn I wept. Out of all the pages, and all the lyrics, the words in verse two of "How Great Thou Art!" hit me. "When through the woods and forest glades I wonder.... Consider all your hands have made... Lest I not forget... How Great Thou Art." With one view of the mountains I was grounded. Reminded of my home, my family, the foundation I had never lost, and the faith it gave me.

It had been 8 years since I had that particular homecoming. I had accomplished everything I had prayed for, I had married, birthed 3 beautiful children, I had moved (5 times), established myself as a profound professional in my chosen field, built communities of people who valued me and my family, found and given into real love, and then... Then my father was diagnosed with a rare, aggressive form of cancer.

What I find so powerful about an instinct is it's ability to guide you home with little acknowledgment of your movement or cognitive recognition of it. I had been working on a project for a State Natural Area my organization manages since I arrived in my position. I has seen maps, surveyed aerials, created marketing materials, sat through intensive planning meetings, and had never stepped foot on the property. The original day of my father's cancer surgery came and I woke up with an unexplainable, unshakable pull to hike House Mountain. I rummaged through 4 boxes still packed from the latest move to find my old hymnal, because my gut said I needed it, stopped at the Dollar General store for a bottle of water, and up the mountain I went - into God's holy presence. The higher I climbed, the stronger the urge to pray, the harder it became to hold back my tears, and the more I pushed to make it. I spent 6 hours on the top of that mountain that day, reestablishing my diminished relationship with my faith.

Although I feel like my day needs to be kept sacred, I do feel led to share one particular moment. I was making my way to my second overlook, when I noticed a clearing of dead pines on a ridge. I hate pines. I also don't enjoy settling in spaces with limited vantage points, but for some reason I was drawn to a rock in the dead center of this patch of lifeless pines. Almost immediately after I sat down on that rock I heard the unforgettable voice say, "Sing to me". I opened up my hymnal and there were the words to "Revive Us Again". Do you know how hard it is to sing "Hallelujah! Thine the Glory" when you don't believe it in that moment? You can't. So there I sat, in the middle of a space I didn't choose, and I wept with my whole body until I could find the words to pray. My prayer wasn't for mercy, it wasn't for divine healing power to come over my father, it wasn't for direction or permission to choose the love I had invested in and would give life for. No. It was a prayer of thanks. Overwhelming thanks for a foundation of faith created through generations of faithful believers that taught me when I sit still enough to listen, I can feel my heart long for the ridges of Appalachia - the only place we ever had to call home.