Blocked beauty becomes a metaphor for life with God in the fog.
“Was this a waste?” The question came to me somewhere near the middle of the climb.
When I boarded the train to Pike’s Peak, I was teeming with excitement. Colorado is known for its scenery, but this ride to Pike’s Peak was supposed to be something unforgettable. For $85, you get an hour-long ride to the summit, forty-five minutes at the top to take it all in, and an hour back down. I came ready! I had a full water bottle, a new hoodie for the cold weather, and even enough phone charge so I could document the whole thing. The train jolted forward. I settled into my seat by the window, ready to be stunned by the views I’d seen online and in YouTube videos. Pike’s Peak is steep. The grade hits 25% in some places and the train weighs over 135 tons. In spite of this, the engine never choked. Instead, it was muscular. It climbed with quiet power and grace as it pushed us higher with steady strength.
Blocked by Trees
I was ready to be awed. But the trees had other plans. The forest was thick, and the view was constantly blocked. I caught brief flashes of the mountainside, glimpses of rock formations and golden light spilling through branches, but just as I reached for my phone… another wall of trees. Again and again. A moose appeared for a brief second in the brush…gone. More trees. More obstruction. I gave up. For long stretches, all I could see was the cold stone of the mountain. It was barren rock, blank and uninviting. Occasionally we passed rusted tracks half-buried in gravel and dirt — relics of failed attempts. The higher we climbed, the more mundane it became. The air thinned. The temperature dropped. And still I had no view. Worse still, the passengers across the aisle had the better side. Their windows opened onto the valley which was the wide, wild beauty I’d come to see. They pointed, gasped, snapped photos. I caught glimpses between heads and iPhones. But these were momentary flashes of what they were enjoying in full. They were where I wanted to be.
And somewhere in that tension between awe and envy, effort and obscurity, I thought to myself: “Was this a waste?” “For we walk by faith, not by sight.” —2 Corinthians 5:7
The Summit Revealed
When we reached the summit, I slipped on my new hoodie and stepped off the train. The air was thin, but clean. The suffocation of the climb gave way to freedom. It was replaced by an open sky stretched out by the hand of God. The whole place felt quiet. So quiet it was almost heavy, but not the heaviness associated with burden. It rested on my shoulders like a blanket. It was the peace of a sanctuary. I walked toward the overlook and saw a plaque stamped in brass: “America the Beautiful.”The lyrics etched into it read like a hymn. Fitting for a place that felt holy. And then I looked up. The view that had been hidden all the way up was now fully revealed. Nothing in the way. Just light and land and sky. The valley opened wide below, a spectrum of color and depth stretching past the horizon. And in the distance, there was a rainbow. It curved over the mountains like a covenant that had never been forgotten. “I have set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between me and the earth.” —Genesis 9:13 I was in awe. I had almost forgotten the frustration of the hour-long climb. The trees. The blocked view. The doubt. Up here, it was hard to imagine how any of that had felt so heavy.
Then I noticed the goats.
Goats and Shalom
An entire herd of mountain goats were peacefully grazing just a few steps from the mountain’s edge. No fences. No fear. They weren’t looking over their shoulders. They weren’t climbing or striving. They were just grazing. They were free. They were peaceful. They were unbothered by the presence of humans. It was like they had always belonged up here. And for that moment, I belonged there with them. I didn’t climb that mountain by myself or in my own strength. I was carried. I didn’t orchestrate the view, neither did I earn the rainbow. Grace carried me up and met me at the top.
“Therefore, since we have been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.” —Romans 5:1
“He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul.” —Psalm 23:2–3
Blocked Beauty and Rusted Tracks
The last few years in seminary and ministry have been coupled with seasons of spiritual obscurity. Blocked beauty becomes a metaphor for life with God in the fog. The climb of faith often includes glimpses of truth, joy, and calling, but they’re fleeting, hidden behind trees of delay, limitation, disappointment, or unanswered prayers. This is Paul’s “through a glass dimly” (1 Corinthians 13:12) and the pilgrim vision of Hebrews 11: “These all died in faith, not having received the things promised, but having seen them and greeted them from afar.” Not every journey ends where it hopes to. The old, rusted tracks are forgotten paths that once carried movement but now lie abandoned. They’re symbols of failure, wear and tear, maybe even trauma. Yet God lets them remain. They become markers of His sovereignty—signs that what man abandons, God can still use.
“And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose.” —Romans 8:28
Carried by Grace
The old, rusted tracks didn’t carry me. They remind me where I could have stayed. They tell the truth about past pain, but grace tells a louder story: the climb wasn’t over. This is the shape of sanctification—not neat and tidy, but messy and carried.
“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” —2 Corinthians 12:9
From Communion to Commission
The beauty and tranquility of the summit represent communion with God. The goats embody Psalm 23’s rest. The rainbow spanning the horizon was visual reassurance that my journey to ordination was not in vain. My hope was not unfounded. His covenant held, even when the view was blocked. But I didn’t stay at the summit. The train eventually descended. The goats stayed. The rainbow faded. But I carried both of them home with me. That’s the mystery of grace. It meets you on the mountain, but it doesn’t leave you there. It sends you back—back into the trees, back past the rusted tracks, back into the suffocating places.
Communion always leads to commission.
“Here am I! Send me.” —Isaiah 6:8 “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations…” —Matthew 28:19 And now I descend with clarity. With rest in my bones and covenant in my hands. Because I’ve seen what’s waiting at the top. It wasn’t a waste. It was all grace. Grace all the way up. And grace all the way back down.
Rev. Christian Leto | Founder