The stray straps on my bag flapped in the beating wind, flicking sharply against my chilled cheeks. I stood at the summit, swaying against the currents of air rising around the mountain, letting them carry the weight of my wandering thoughts. The wind stirred in disorganized blasts, from the north, out of the east, westerly, carrying sparkling snowflakes— it felt like the thoughts in my beating head. The chaos around me provided a certain level of comfort. The muscles in my legs, taught in the cold, seemed to speak with the rising and falling of the wind. The bitter cold seeped through the leather of my boots and tips of my gloves until I only felt the thump-thump of my warm heart. The air stopped moving briefly and silence settled over the peak. And suddenly, my wandering thoughts crashed back down. Just when I thought I would crumble under the weight, I felt His hand prop me up from behind and He spun up the wind once again.
When I stepped off the summit, down the trail home, I was whole again; fractured pieces reassembled in the mountain Church.