Disappearing Mountains

I recently got prescription glasses. I was the last hold out in my childhood family of 4, but driving around in a new city and squinting while attempting to read street signs wasn’t my cup of tea, so I caved. It’s not a strong prescription, but when I slipped on the metal frames and looked out across the horizon I was amazed at the clarity of the mountains here. I didn’t realize that the slightly blurry haze to their peaks was the result of my impaired vision, not their distance.

On a clear day, when the sun shines down from a brilliant blue sky onto the mountains, the view is spectacular. From miles away you can see the shadows and outlines of the cracks and crevices carved in the massive rock. Each grouping of trees is distinct, and the line marking those barren places where the elevation exceeds their limitations, is obvious to the naked (or vision corrected) eye thousands of feet below. This is my view on days when the midday sky is a vibrant blue, with clouds so white they look like cotton balls, and the sun casts it’s bright light across the mountains and prairies.

But some days the mountains are hard to see, and it’s not due to my faulty vision. Sometimes the sky dims and the mountains are shrouded by a distant haze that makes them fuzzy. Those days their shape marks only an outline across the horizon, a silhouette lacking distinction and clarity. Other days, when the mist settles in and the clouds drop low, the mountains are completely obscured. They disappear behind dreary weather. On days like that I forget they’re there. Though the mountains dominate the skyline of my city, the moment they’re hidden, I forget about them. Not that they’ve moved or that I couldn’t drive through the fog and mist to reach them, but when they don’t dominate my vision, my short term brain lets them go. Maybe that’s normal for people who haven’t lived near mountains, or maybe it’s my near sighted nature.

I have a feeling it’s the latter, because I see the same in my relationship with God. He, the ever present God, more vast than I can comprehend, loving and constant in faithfulness and mercy. But when my circumstances obscure His presence, when the fog of depression or the mist of uncertainty drop in, when the haze of anger and disappointment appear, they skew my perception. They make me forget that there is a stalwart God who hasn’t left His place, sovereign in heaven and right next to me. In my uncertainty, I doubt His goodness. I question why He’s brought me here and then seemingly disappeared. But just like the mountains haven’t left their place, neither has God. He is unchanging, despite my circumstances. “For I, the Lord, do not change; therefore you, O sons of Jacob, are not consumed” (Malachi 3:6)

I have experienced this particular struggle every fall since my development of depression and anxiety. As the sun becomes stingy with her appearance, slow to rise and fast to set, it feels like God becomes stingy with his Word and comfort. As the nights get longer and longer and I spend more time in the dark, my brain struggles to walk in the light. The things I know about God and my faith become clouded and overshadowed by the mist of my internal fog. I get frustrated at God’s seeming silence and in it, my difficult circumstances seem to be magnified.

So what to do when my mind is warring between doubt and belief? Sometimes I wait for the situation to change, I stay still and know that soon the wind will blow the mist away and I’ll see clearly again. Other times, I drive through the fog and obscurity and take myself right up to the “rock that is higher than I” (Psalms 61:2). I charge headfirst at the mountain I know is there, whether or not my eyes can confirm it. I choose to show that, despite my questioning, I still believe enough to act.

Those who know your name turn to you, for you, Lord, have never forsaken those who seek you. Psalms 9:10

I do not choose to have depression, but I choose faith in spite of it.