The other day I climbed a mountain.

I climb mountains for many reasons. I love to set myself against the challenge of steep rock. I stay within my boundaries of safety for the most part, but always there is the spice of adventure. It is an experience that is enhanced by the company of friends, although on the steep bits my fitness level does not allow much spare breath for talking. Increasingly however, I love to be in the mountains alone.

And these days have often become my times of pilgrimage. As I journey through wild places, and allow a crowded mind to empty before the simplicity of scrambling over rough ground, I suddenly find that it is possible for God to be heard through the static of my usual day. It is not that I do not try to listen normally you understand, it is just that He really needs to shout. And I can be so busy trying to do His job for him, that I forget that He is so much better at it than I am.

So, whilst not pretending to be in the possession of great spiritual insight, I would recommend finding a place of your own where you can linger, or even journey, with the Living God. I have a friend who has a special place along the Loch side, with a convenient tree stump. Another far more organised friend has a room in her house that she keeps just for this same purpose.

I love being in Mountains. I love the sweep of slope from green forest to the dark crags. I love the cloud as it wisps it way through the peaks, and the constant changes of light as the sun brings out every imaginable shade of green. Much more than this, however, I love to be in God’s presence.

I have known His closeness in the high mountains, and also in other places far more earthbound. Like a heavy perfume, resting and intoxicating with Joy and anticipation. Suddenly the air crackles as if electrified. The space becomes fertile and full of fecundity. Nothing else measures up, and once experienced, all we want is more. In every sense of the words, these are the mountaintop experiences of my life.

But God also speaks through the small, quiet things, given as gifts in the stride of the day. Pockets of grace to pick up, and carry on.

Mountains can be dangerous places. On the day in question I climbed into a blizzard, enjoying the need for crampons and ice-axe. And there, just above the snowline, stark against the white snow patch, I suddenly saw a bundle of dark brown fur. Tiny and vulnerable, it was a mole.

What was he doing here, so high above the valley floor? Far from the gardens and football pitches of my youth, into which the industrious creatures would push up their countless mounds of earth like mushrooms in the night. What did he find to eat up here? He certainly seemed to offer a very visible target for any passing falcon. There was surely little opportunity for tunnelling into this hard rock, unless he was equipped with blasting powder.

He saw me, and had a terrible fright. With legs buzzing like the wings of a bee, he shot over to a pile of rocks, and dived in. He was home, safe deep in a friendly cleft rock.

And into my head, popped this Psalm. I t could be written just for the moles of this world.

I run to you O Lord, for life.

I throw myself upon you

I plead that you accept me

Come down to where I am, and listen

Your caves are my hiding place

Your precipitous cliffs are my nesting place

Hide me in your depths

Be my guide in the climbs and the scrambles

You are my leader

You will never let me fall

My life is in your hands

You will never let me down

(From psalm 31)