Holy Ground

I felt the wind press against my body, folding me into the mountain as if we were long due for a hug. I wanted to give up in that moment; everything was sore and I was sweating under my 4 layers.  The cold air seeped into my smile like my mouth was a tunnel, the breezes wriggling their way in between my teeth and into my bones. 

I stopped to look out at the land behind me. Below me. Around me. So unoccupied. So green. So still.  The sight brought tears to my eyes. Well, in actuality, I think the wind did that. But honestly, I couldn’t believe an average American girl like me was in the middle of the Lake District in northern England, surrounded by absolutely no lakes, climbing in search of what felt like the key to mental freedom, if nothing else. 

I looked above me. A steep incline, a familiar challenge.  Dotted with other tiny human bodies attempting to reach its peak. I said a short prayer to God then, and somehow in that moment of miniature worship I realized I had stopped breathing altogether. After making a conscious decision to welcome clean, fresh air back into my lungs, I mounted the hill, which was something I shouldn’t have been able to do considering I had been sick with the flu. 

At the summit, the wind howled at me from all directions. I laughed as its strength spun my hair out of control.  I gazed at the panoramic view and took pictures with my friends and of course documented the day on Instagram.  

But the best moment was when I let myself fall.  My ears opened wide to hear the sweet things God had to whisper; I became free of all the harmful things that had recently permeated my outer shell. I lay there, pressed against the grass, listening to the clouds as I shut my eyes and became one with the ground.