Mountain Climber

Preparation for this feat took place beyond the realm of my consciousness. Before my soul shed a tear in this wilderness.

I was born a mountain climber. Carved confidently. Molded by passion, strength, and endurance. My indestructible cables were handed down by champions, as were my harnesses and picks. I was presented with it all. All the tools were laid at my feet with great expectations, for those before me trudged many a mountain. Much like the monster that growls in my face this very day.

I look up into the frosted peaks, ridged with spiky stones and lifeless plants jutting out into blank breezes. Fog crushes all that is above as a black crow, cutting through the mist, cries for help – moaning peril‘s hymn. A sharp wind pierces my face and ears, which are still so vulnerable; I shutter discretely, contemplating destiny. My hands not yet callused. My feet not yet blistered. I graze my hand along the surface of this beast, and it groans. It grimaces, mocking my faith, as if my weakness was preconceived… and maybe it was.

They say that too many men do indeed push past the elements to some degree, yet claim triumphant victory somewhere in-between failure and success. These men consider almost an accomplishment. And I was told I would find those men contently dwelling in a sheltered cranny, temporarily untouched by the flames this feared dragon spouts, yet forever numb to Heaven‘s song which reigns mercifully atop this treacherous mountain. I must overlook their smiles, however, and ignore the false peace they wallow in. For one day, this mountain will crumble helplessly, and all of its tempting crevices shall be diminished – engulfed by the rocks and ice that these men once called their safe home. Yes. Many souls shall perish as debris.

I should be ready, as many times as I have knelt humbly at the foot of fate. Trembling in fear. Cursing the burdens weighing down my satchel that demand to be unleashed and dealt with. The adversary tugs my collar, smiting my potential, which has yet to bloom. I try to move, but my boots sink deeper into conviction. My limbs freeze to my sides, and I am as stone. Nothing but a statue for evil to claim, and celebrate, and mount high on a pedestal of mockery.

Today, I bow to defeat, and my journey has yet to begin.

I’m owned by the demon I have come here to slay; in spite of the pain that will surely be inflicted upon my flesh, I must tear away from the chains bounding me to Hell.

A sudden rumble quakes amidst my escape, and snow lightly drifts onto my tear-stricken cheeks to cool my emotions.

Was that a cry?
Did I witness a sob creeping from the heart of Satan’s greatest obstacle?
As I am resisting death, could this mountain be afraid of me?

The thinnest ray of sunlight, poking its glorious head through clouds hovering thick and dark, brightens the wall of my most feared endeavor. I can see Hope skipping around the extremities, waving me to higher grounds and melting the ice, which would cause me to slip. I can hear Faith singing praises off in the distance – breathing assurance on my wilted spirits.

I can be moved – inspired – and am.


I reach into my satchel and pull out my tools.

All 66 books of them.

Eagerly, I open the Holy Bible, knowing that everything I need to know about climbing this malicious mountain lies in the contents of its sacred pages.

The sun is once again hidden by toiling storms that wisp gradients of fear into my eyes, but I have the brightest light of all resting in my own two hands. Those who gave me the tools trusted I’d use them, fight with them, and never lose sight of them along my journey to become a true champion.

I was meant to persevere. I was created to excel. I was taught to ignore those blind men in the crannies.

I was, out of God’s undying mercy, born to be a mountain climber.

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