I want to see the northern slopes one more time. I have seen them in my dreams of course, more times than I can count. But I want to see them with my own two eyes. I have been promised this is not too much to ask and I hold on to that promise dearly. I want to see the white-capped hills stark against the vastness of the sky. I will walk on that well-trod path and let my feet carry me swiftly onwards towards the stile. Then the wild grassy fields that shall let me walk to the very feet of those mountains for which my heart longs. I will run my hands through the tall grass along the path and fix my eyes on the prize. But then I remember the scars I bear and I bow my head in shame and weep. Then I remember the one who calls me friend, the one who has been scarred too. I weep all the more. It is too much that I should be loved as much as this. Even to the end.

It is time now. I delight in the vision that is set before me. I see the mountains grow larger now. Oddly enough, the sky seems no less vast. The weight of heaven presses upon me, but gently, as the hand of a father upon his son’s shoulder. I see now a little cottage at the base of the foothills. There is a little vegetable garden next to it. And a fence surrounding all. A figure rests upon the fence and looks in my direction. He waves his hand in greeting and then beckons me forward. I smell woodsmoke on the breeze and…is that beef stew? A feast it seems is in store. I walk forward towards the man who waits at the door of that little cottage at the base of these northern hills.