We will adapt.

For my hero.

Image: A difficult trek up Jefferson’s Knee on Mount Jefferson in the White Mountains.

There’s no doubt about it: my dad is a tree hugger. He’s a lover of nature. Humble in the face of it, he taught me the art of silence (which is very difficult for me). But I loved his passion for it—I always have.

My dad gave me the opportunity, as a young child, to walk alongside him in the orchards and woods that surrounded our home.

As a child, my dad was my hero. He still is and always will be. I wanted to be just like him, so I did my best to do everything he did. One of those things was learning to be silent when we walked.

I remember going out in four feet of snow—how I managed it, I still don’t know. My sisters, my dad, and I went “moose hunting.” And when I say moose hunting, I mean we saw signs that there was a moose in our woods and wanted to catch a glimpse of that increasingly rare sight.

So we followed the tracks with a video camera and walked in silence. If you know me, you know silence is nearly impossible for me. But Dad did it, so I was going to do it too.

We never found our moose, but we still have the video of our adventure to this day. I had the pleasure of watching it this summer and remembering that silent trek through the woods—my little sister, my big sister, my dad, and me on a three-mile hike in deep snow, trying to be as quiet as we possibly could.

There’s no way we could’ve done it without Dad.

As I grew older—into my teen years and college days—my dad gave me the privilege of backpacking with him in the White Mountains.

But there was a rule:

No headphones.

No radios.

No distractions.

There was silence.

There was silence because my dad, my cousin, and I were taught that if we listened carefully, the mountain would have something to say. If we talked, we wouldn’t hear the soft wind (or the not-so-soft wind) rustling through the leaves. We would miss it telling its secrets. We wouldn’t hear the wind howling over the ridgeline.

What he really meant was this: we would not hear what God had to say to us as we spent time in His magnificent creation.

Image: Northern lights on the farm.

It is always a privilege to be on a mountain. It was always a privilege to walk with Dad. And it still is.

When I moved back home two years ago, I was in a wheelchair due to poor health and significant muscle loss in my legs. But he would gently say, “Walk with me.”

So I would hold his arm and walk with Dad—maybe just to the end of the driveway and back—to get strong again. But I always walked with my dad.

Today the wheelchair is gone.

The cane is gone.

The walker is gone.

I can walk farther and enjoy it with my dad once more.

Sometimes we talk.

But mostly we walk in silence.

Because my dad wants me to listen to the mountain—so I can hear what God has to say.

My dad will turn 70 next year.

I am so lucky to still have him in my life—to teach me the lesson, the discipline, and the pleasure of silence.

Next time you have the privilege of being out in nature, listen to what the mountain has to say. Listen to how the trees speak to one another with the rustling of their leaves.

Practice the discipline of silence, and you might just hear—not a mighty roar, not the trembling rumble of an earthquake—but that still small voice whispering through the trees, through the mountain, and into your heart.

When I was in a wheelchair, all I could think about was how I wished I could climb one more mountain with my dad, and I would cry.

I was recently diagnosed with Parkinsonism. I won’t ever be able to climb The White Mountains again, but I still set my feet on the mountains when I walk down dirt paths, when I walk through the fields where my grandparents’ ashes are spread, when I listen to wind chimes in a breeze, and when I hear hummingbirds gathering nectar.

Don’t miss it.

It’s a privilege.

It’s a discipline.

It’s a blessing.

And it’s the kind of magic you don’t want to miss—because the mountain might be talking.

Image: The Presidentials in New Hampshire.

“Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake.
‭‭After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire.

…And after the fire came a gentle whisper…”
‭‭1 Kings‬ ‭19‬:‭12‬ ‭NIV‬‬