Glass doors open to a pebblestone terrace, and a path below that disappears into the horizon through fields and pasture. One of August’s last suns has long set, darkening the sky, like indigo ink spilling across a nighttime canvas. Humble prayers float away to the brightening stars; hopeful yellow splashes of color, flung into the dark. 

Suitcase to the side, those prayers become bolder, wondering if I can leave everything I’m unpacking here. Finally under the duvet, evening’s cool air carries the tinkling of dairy cow bells across the rolling Swiss hills, like a playful lullaby for a woman seeking reconnection to the little girl who believed all was good. 

All has not been good, but Burtigny, a quaint farming village overlooking Lac Leman, has welcomed me to a week of retreat. It’s breaking that’s brought me here. Injury to my very essence. Habakkuk nights of how long, and why, Lord. Nights that became seasons; seasons that became years. 

But morning comes here, and the cows must visit for milking so their jovial ringing awakens me. Sunshine reaches my eyes, touching that deep place within that longs for a new day. The mountain path pulls me upward, dawn and noon and dusk. My hips sting from the incline, spreading nerve pain from an old wound around my waist, and I wonder if I should keep going. 

These trips up the mountain continue, while farmers tend their fields, care for their herds, and take the time to play with their children. This close consistency to agriculture has me noticing scenes much different than suburbia. Tall corn stalks and something else I don’t know fill one side with growth, while plowed dirt opposite awaits sowing. 

Each trip takes me further, and one night I arrive. The highest point holds a view in all directions that wraps my soul in peace. Every shade of blue envelopes me, from sky, to lake, to layered alpine ranges. With fertile fields below, and abundant woods behind, there is glory where my two feet stand. Of the God who made it all, of the God I’m prone to doubt.

Sleepless seasons and a broken past across the Atlantic feel so distant here, so little in light of delight. So powerless with the prayers that have poured in to me. Overcome by effervescent joy, I twirl like the innocent 5-year old still within me. My eyes wrinkle and dimples deepen, with a smile no one sees.

Night descends and so must I. Mosquitos buzz, begging for swatting, like a few pestering fears that reemerge, and I remember when anxiety would nearly eat me alive. Village lights draw me home and the door to my haven becomes visible. The time to return is soon but serenity stays with me as I walk, watching the ways these fields wait for tomorrow. 

The upturning of the earth is good. Breaking through hardened ground, finding the rocks that need removing, and even the fallow season, is necessary for sustenance here in this village. For the sanctification of my soul within God’s Kingdom. Suffering watered with prayers, and even doubts and questions too, grows goodness.

The daily liturgy of lament, of offering each ache to God like a seed of hope, cultivates the connection with Him for harvest. Abundance, a reaping of peace and joy, sowed with tears. It’s not this night that will change everything, a mountain top experience to make things right. God is poignantly with me in the vista because He led me alongside in the valley. I just feebly followed His voice. 

In the deepening dusk, two red poppies catch my eye, intermixed with crops and weeds and dirt. Their beauty stills me. An invitation to remember where I’m going because of where I’ve been. Right now I’m headed down, but the aching has me headed up. Forward on that hill to Zion, where I’ll live forever, healed and free, with fields and fig trees, abundantly.

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