a three-mountain day

 

Three-mountain days really aren’t a common occurrence around here. Or, at least, not common enough. But I can still sense when they’re going to show up. The air has a certain clarity; the sky is pure azure. The sun shines at a distinct angle and the whole world seems sharper somehow, as if viewed through a lens that was suddenly brought into perfect focus. A lot of the time, days like this come on the heels of a roaring windstorm (or, better yet, a wind and rain storm).

Far left: Mt. St. Helens. Middle: Mt. Adams. Far right: Mt. Rainier.

I’m terribly attached to Mt. Adams. I can see it out my living room window whenever it’s not cloudy, looming majestically over the northwest horizon. It’s never not been there.

It’s going to be hard to leave this place. I was born here—I have lived my life in those crop fields, moving irrigation lines and riding horses and dreaming and growing up. Maybe the fact that today I’m eighteen has something to do with the sudden twinge of melancholy I feel. Suddenly I’m old enough—old enough to vote, old enough to leave home, old enough to become my own person and lead my own life. I’ve spent my life wanting to be old enough, but now that I have achieved this landmark, part of me wishes I could go back… just for a day… and be little Hallie again, dreaming about the future with all the zeal of untainted innocence and optimism.

But the other part of me is excited. I’m excited that the future is more tangible than just a dream now, and while I might not have the advantage of total carefreeness, I can still move ahead with faith in the power of my God to see me through whatever lies ahead.