It feels like I was created to love the mountains, those towering giants that stretch toward the infinite expanse, rugged and solitary, embodying the wildness of my spirit. Yet in their shadows, I find joy in the company of God’s saints, those flawed, beautiful souls who mirror my own journey. I have walked with God for over sixty years, each step a testament to faith, each breath a whisper of grace. For thirty-five years, I have served the body of Christ, a minister laboring in love, my heart an open well, ever pouring out to others in countless ways.

Blessings have rained upon me, cascading like waterfalls, too abundant to count—each moment spent with the people of God a pearl strung upon the necklace of my life. Jesus saved me first in 1965, lifting me from shadows, pulling me into light. His bride, the church, rescued me a second time in 1999, wrapping me in a warmth that promised belonging—she is the last best hope for a world aching for salvation.

Yet, even amidst this sacred fellowship, I carry my scars, wounds inflicted by some of the very hands meant to heal. Confusion knits its threads into my heart, deep disappointment staining my expectations. I trust Jesus, my anchor in the storm, but His people have not always shown the way; their missteps leaving me weary and unsure.

And yet, what do I do? Love remains a fierce ember, stubborn and undying, compelling me to embrace the people of God despite the pain. I am left to navigate this sorrow, to learn from it, to find the grace woven through the threads of my experience. In the quiet stillness of the mountains, I seek to reconcile the rugged reality of my soul with the vast love that calls me onward. I must learn that love holds both joy and sorrow, climbing higher, reaching deeper, forging a path where my heart can rest and rise anew amidst the peaks and valleys of faith.