I feel like I'm about to expose my tender underbelly, since I don't usually write like this, but I feel it's time to share this... (what do I call it?)...poetic prose. Here goes...
“Give me this mountain!” I timidly cry out, growing more confident even as I say it. Inspired by Caleb (Joshua 14:12), I know that with the Lord’s help I can conquer this mountain—this land of giant appetites—this insurmountable problem of overeating. I can visualize success. I can see myself on top of the mountain, planting my banner, pleased and proud; uplifted and made conqueror by the hand of the Lord.
So I begin my journey.
Yesterday it was “Give me this mountain!” and I advanced two steps. But today I cry, “Remove this mountain!” For I am no longer advancing at a snail’s pace up the side, I realize I am trapped beneath. Buried. One minute I am on the side, and the next minute, with one misstep (was it the popcorn?), I find myself beneath. Surrounded by darkness, crushed and whimpering. The mountain is planted squarely on top.
“Someone call IX-I-I!” I smirk. I cannot cry out. I am smothered, alone. As I lay beneath the mountain, I ponder. Where did I go wrong? Where was my misstep? How did I get beneath instead of on top? Was it the Kentucky Fried Chicken? But it was a better choice than Wendy’s or A&W, wasn’t it? And I only ate one side of green beans and gave the biscuit to coworker Bill. Oh! I should have planned better. I should have foreseen I would go from one job to another and not have time to eat. Yes. That’s it. I should have planned better.
But wait. Maybe it was the popcorn. I wanted the popcorn from Low Book Sales. I just had to have it. But then maybe it was eating too much Panda Express followed by too much watermelon followed by…
I sob. What’ the use?
I lay very still and cry. I pray. “Lord, yesterday I faced the mountain and started to climb. Today I am beneath. Why?”
Staring into the darkness, I see clearly. “Give me this mountain” indeed. I am within. I built it around and over me, first as a shelter, then as a façade—layer by layer of sediment settling more solid year after year. My relationship with food covers it, like vegetation that grows on the mountainside, where I graze and gorge in comfort, ignoring what lies beneath.
“Give me this mountain.” Indeed, the mountain is mine, and it must be removed, not climbed. With my Savior’s help, I can move the mountain…one shovelful at time. I must sift through the dirt, examine it, acknowledge or discard it, until I am free. And then I will stake my banner – on solid, level, ground.
“Remove this mountain.” So it is that shovel turns to pen, mountain turns to paper. And I write.