We had dinner downtown, she’d made reservations and we allowed ourselves indulgence for the sake of memory. 

We traveled with intent of finding treasures for the beginning of their first home. 

Nothing was found. Frustration mounted over sluglike people convening upon a metal building that was called a barn but was a warehouse of metal full of signs lettered, “Hey, ya’ll”. 

People moving slow, pushing us forward, their breath and bodies so close behind and in front, far be it we pause to consider purchase. 

We got out soon and never got to shop for antiques, our choice, we reconsidered the day, made it new. 

Had a yummy little lunch, napped sort of and had simple supper followed by coffee, cheesecake and chocolate in double decker bus. Fun. People, cats on a leash and couples, we decided on first dates.

Then, we slept in the pretty room with the pretty things. She, before me. I read a little and thought of what I’d decided before we left…”these will be days of small things.”

On Sunday morning, she woke early and I pretended to sleep. I’d thought of the man and wife from England, disappointed over the Blue Ridge up towards mountain blocked. 

I couldn’t help but wonder whether they were not to go further or maybe they were to ignore the warning and proceed. After all, there had been no ice, no snow, no storm. 

But, they heeded the warning and turned back…went no further, returned to be met by others for evening’s gathering.

I’d fallen asleep thinking of the mountain they longed to see, but had been turned back.  Had decided not for us to see, to know. 
And when I woke, lying in the quiet after my daughter had returned to her side, I remembered my thinking of mountains and of them being moved.

 I decided on Sunday morning on the trip with my daughter that I should keep going towards what I wonder may come true. 

I should continue taking steps, not giving up and that mountains are not only for circling ’round and mountains are not only for going through. 

Sometimes, yes, still mountains can be moved. 

Peeking behind the blind, the sun is rising. 

The mountain has been moved.  

I wear a gold bracelet with the silhouettes of daughter and son, an artist palette and a tiny mustard seed in a little bubble of a charm. 
What is this faith, Lisa, this little drop in the bucket that’s already there that will ripple the waters, maybe turn the tide? 

This faith, this tiny seed called your treasure is moving the mountain, the mountain of doubt, fear, or slinking back and of believing it’s all too much. 

No need to consider traveling through or circling around. 
The mountain, the thing I worry looms and dooms. 

It can be moved. 

I fold my hands and I pray in the tiny little room with the claw foot tub, for this understanding of mountain that can be moved. 

It is well with me. There is no need to worry over the climb,  the ascent, the scariness of hard and jagged places. 

For, if I am to travel to places that seem too high, just the thought of them, I may discover the ground has been leveled and I’m standing in fields of grassy green, my arms open wide and my face towards heaven, moist with joyful tears. 

It is well with me. 

 For truly, I say to you, if you have faith like a grain of mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move, and nothing will be impossible for you.””

‭‭Matthew‬ ‭17:20‬ ‭
Linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee. She too, wears a little piece of jewelry that contains a tiny but mighty reminder, the mustard seed. 

http://jenniferdukeslee.com/amount-faith-need-handle-problems/