Someday I will have children of my own. (Yes, little human beings who will actually think I’m the wisest, strongest, bravest, and most handsome man on earth—at least until they turn eight.) As soon as they are able to wield crayons, I will make sure to teach them to draw mountains. But not the way I had learned to do it as a young boy: with two huge inverted V’s and a semi-circle in between as the sun. Mountains, as I have been recently reminded, are much grander and spectacular than that.
Instead of perfect triangles with pointed summits, I will guide my little ones to draw irregular peaks, both rugged and gently sloping. Sprawled on the floor, we will outline mountains that fill a large sheet of paper. (Drawing on walls or floors, though fun, will surely get us in trouble with their mother.) We won’t want small mounds; we’ll aim for majestic heights. Our mountains will be colored in shades of green, brown, black, even yellow and orange. All sorts of trees will spring up from the body of the mountains. Some tall, some small. Some lush with leaves, some bald and brown. And grass, drawn as specks of green, will cover the empty spaces—yes, I believe we’ll want verdant mountains.
And when my little Michaelangelos finally get bored with drawing mountains with paper and crayons, I will know to bring them to see the real mountains. Together we will stand in awe of this great work of art: still yet alive, mighty yet inviting. And, hopefully, they will look up to me and ask who could have drawn this great wonder before us. Then I will tell them of the Great Mountain Maker….
And then maybe, just maybe, they will never stop drawing mountains. They will live their lives always in awe of mountains and their Creator. Until they themselves hold the chubby hands of their own offsprings, drawing mountains and then telling of the Great Mountain Maker.