A personal reflection on stillness, nature, and the moments that teach us hope.
There’s something healing about nature. Many times I’ve needed quiet, and a forest or a mountain is always waiting—silent, patient, forgiving. A friend. Never judging, never telling me what to do, never rushing me.
Nature’s silence isn’t empty. It listens. It witnesses. It absorbs the anguish you pour out. It’s a perfect altar for prayer. A perfect escape from a world that sometimes dismisses your pain.
The trees don’t rush; when the wind blows through them, they whisper truth. The rocks don’t panic; they support. The water beside you doesn’t ask for explanations—it simply soothes. “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10).
I have known severe tragedy. I had a son named Chance, but he was not meant to stay long in this world. We held him for five hours before he took his last breath. Both before his birth and after, I sought solitude—in the woods, on a mountain, by the water.
There’s a spot I call “Church Rock,” overlooking a southern high plain of Appalachia. From there, I see ridges stretching into the distance, scattered with boulders split long ago. Early in the morning, fog clings to the top. The mountain feels almost yours, even for a short while.
If you follow the gravel trail atop Spruce Mountain, you can climb a small tower and gaze out over what feels like the whole world. The stillness holds as the fog lingers. Only with patience does the Earth begin to reveal its secrets.
I’ve read scripture here. I am a Christian, but that’s not required to find healing in these moments. Maybe the mountain isn’t your place—but there is always a space to hear the still, small voice of God, however you understand it. “My presence will go with you, and I will give you rest” (Exodus 33:14).
Sometimes, just sitting and being is enough. Sitting and breathing. Sitting and listening. Even in silence, you hear a lot.
In 2009, before Chance was born, I sat on the observation tower. The fog hung low, forcing focus on what I could see—only the small world on that tower. I realized there was fog in my mind, too. Only the Son could clear it.
I opened my Bible, not looking for anything in particular. I landed on Romans 10:11: “Anyone who believes in Him will never be put to shame.” In my mind, I read it this way: “Those who call on the Lord will not be put to shame.”
The doctors had told us to give up hope. Chance had Potter Syndrome—no kidneys. They were right medically. But we were right spiritually and emotionally: he lived. For five hours. Three hundred minutes. Eighteen thousand seconds.
Those moments taught me something essential: the world moves fast, but life—real life—often happens in quiet, still seconds.
I’ve shared Church Rock with others. To many, it’s just a rock, just a hill, just a view. Stand still, or you’ll miss it. You can see the Fingerprints—the handiwork of God in the trees, the wind, the rocks, the sky.
Spruce Knob is special to me, but it’s not the place itself—it’s the pause it gives me. We all have places where we remember, wrestle, breathe, and meet God. Find yours. Be still. Breathe. Listen. Even in silence, you’ll hear more than you expect.
Rooted & Reckoned 
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