Beautiful Estes Park, Colorado—the home of my heart and the frequent destination of my wilderness wanderings. Although circumstances prevented me from visiting for almost three years, I was finally able to return this summer. 

I hadn’t forgotten how gorgeous the mountains are—I couldn’t have, since they’re stamped across my daydreams and carved upon my heart. But still, when I stood in their sharpened shadows, I was reminded once more of how much glory burns on the crest of the Rockies. 

You see, in Estes Park, I am only a breath away from the High Peaks. Seeming to dwarf the lower mountains, these giants tower above the landscape, catching the clouds and scouring the sky. They are the most recognizable feature of the area, depicted on postcards and printed on T-shirts and photographed incessantly by visitors. Directly to the west of Estes Park, in fact, are the two highest mountains in the national park—Longs Peak and Mount Meeker. At 14,259 feet and 13,916 feet, respectively, they were described as the “Two Guides” by the Native people of this area. Because they are so tall, the original inhabitants learned, they are visible from anywhere in the vicinity, ensuring that they can always be used for navigation purposes. To this day, if I become bewildered on a Rocky Mountain hike, a single glance toward Longs and Meeker can reorient me immediately.

Yet during this visit, something shocking happened to the High Peaks—something that could never have been expected. The mountains went missing.

A surprise spring snowstorm settled over the Rockies, dumping several feet of snow on the High Peaks and leaving nearly a foot even in the somewhat lower and relatively sheltered Estes Valley. And suddenly, I realized that I couldn’t see the mountains at all. Thick gray clouds dropped a curtain over my view, and the white whirl of snow erased the horizon. In a matter of hours from the onset of the storm, my mountains disappeared, without even a faint outline to hint at their whereabouts. In fact, if I hadn’t known better, I would have panicked, certain that my mountains were completely absent. 

Throughout the snowstorm, I never ceased to marvel that these mighty peaks could completely vanish due to nothing more than a simple weather phenomenon. For thousands of years, they’ve guarded the horizon like colossal sentinels, yet the fragile and fleeting snow can obliterate them entirely. And as I pondered this truth, I realized that this scenario isn’t limited to mountain weather patterns. It’s a reality in our daily lives as well.

You see, the Presence of God towers over our lives with the magnificence of the High Peaks. And we who live in His shadow can see Him no matter where we are in life. From all directions and from every angle, He is visible, the ruling monarch on the horizon of our days. His Presence is a comforting consistency, and if confusion taps our shoulder, a quick glance toward Him can reorient us in a moment.

But then things change. The clouds tumble over the edge of the sky. The snow is chased by the wind. The winter we never saw coming shakes our souls. And we realize, to our horror, that we can’t see God at all.  

And so we strain our eyes toward the horizon. We pour out our souls in prayer. We seek advice from trusted friends. We beg for a sign, however trivial, that we are not forgotten. But the faint light of our own efforts isn’t enough to pierce the fog and reveal the mountains again. And finally we begin to believe that maybe, just maybe, God isn’t merely hidden but actually entirely absent. Perhaps when the snow clears, the mountains will be missing from the landscape of our lives. 

This isn’t a new struggle for us as humans. In fact, it’s described in one of the oldest Biblical accounts—the story of Job. If ever a man could see God on his horizon, Job was surely that man. He lived in the land of God’s blessings, a respected and powerful leader with a wonderful family, a comfortable life, and an affluent income. But then the winter came to his world. The snow whipped white, and the fog closed in, and Job’s landscape was decimated by the death of his children, the failure of his livelihood, the deterioration of his health, and the tarnishment of his reputation.  

Any one of these events would be enough to devastate someone, and the unrelenting blows certainly left Job reeling. But throughout the unfolding story, it becomes obvious that what Job found far more painful than the removal of his income, the failure of his health, and even the loss of his children was the supposed absence of God. Again and again in his grief, he lamented God’s seeming apathy toward his situation. He cried out to the Lord he’d faithfully served, “Why do You hide Your face and count me as Your enemy?” (Job 13:24 ESV) 

And God was silent.

He yelled, “Oh, that I knew where I might find Him, that I might come even to His seat!” (Job 23:3 ESV).

And God was silent.

Finally he wept this heartbreaking confession: “Behold, I go forward, but He is not there, and backward, but I do not perceive Him; on the left hand when He is working, I do not behold Him; He turns to the right hand, but I do not see Him” (Job 23:9 ESV).

He is not there…I do not see Him.

Job’s words are startling to me—because they feel like mine. How many times in my own life have I cried out that I cannot see God? How many times have I squinted through the fog, only to see no trace of the High Peaks? And how often have I reached Job’s catastrophic conclusion? God does not care. God will not act. God is not here.

Job’s plight reminds me of another Scripture: Psalm 97:2. “Clouds and thick darkness are all around Him” (ESV). We’re accustomed to seeing God as the embodiment of light, so to some, it may seem odd that He’s described as surrounded by clouds and darkness. But this verse resonates with those of us who have stood in Job’s shoes. We know how painful it is to peer desperately at where the mountains should be and see only the looming mass of clouds. 

I know how bleak these times can be. While it’s disorienting to not see the mountains, it’s downright terrifying to not see God. So today, I’m not here to offer oversimplified answers or Sunday school dogmas or catchy Christian slogans. What I can do, however, is point to some truths that I hope can shine a spotlight through the fog.

First of all, remember that our inability to see God does not equate to His disappearance. When the snow descended on Estes Park, the mountains performed a very convincing vanishing act—but they never left. And the God Who promised His followers that “I am with you always, to the end of the age” has not broken His Word. In fact, oftentimes what we perceive as God’s absence is actually His way of working behind the scenes. “My Father is always at His work to this very day, and I too am working,” said Jesus in John 5:17 (NIV). Don’t miss that word always. God doesn’t take a holiday or fall asleep or vacate His throne. We can’t always see Him, and we can’t always feel Him, but we can always cling to the truth that He is there, acting in love for us. 

And this leads us to an important point: if God hasn’t moved, then something is blocking our view of Him. At times this is something out of our control—perhaps the abyss of depression, for example, or the accusations of others, or a wayward child, or a stressful job. But in other cases, our eyes are clouded by our own flawed perspective. Bitterness, apathy, or guilt can all smudge the lenses of our hearts and hide our view of God. In such times, seeing the Lord’s hand again must begin within ourselves. 

So after we rejoice in God’s constancy and examine our hearts, what’s the next step? Perhaps the most important one: we keep moving in the direction of God. 

This reminds me again of my missing mountains. Finding my way around the park and orienting myself on hikes was much more difficult when the High Peaks were hidden. But it wasn’t impossible—because I knew where they should be. I could look at the surly clouds and remember where the mountains rose behind them. And even in the heavy-hanging grayness, I was able to choose my direction, based on where I knew the mountains still were. 

Friend, even when God’s Presence is invisible, we know where He should be, and at all costs, we must keep moving that way. Prayers are still heard; keep praying. Worship is still worthwhile; keep praising. And serving is still honored; keep serving. It’s so tempting in these times to sink into the snow and give up, but if we keep pressing forward in the direction of God, then one day, the clouds will part, and the sun will shine. And we’ll realize that we’re far closer to His heart than we ever imagined—that even in our flailing, we drew nearer to His heights. 

And make no mistake—the clouds will part. Job’s story culminates with his grateful proclamation: “My ears had heard of You but now my eyes have seen You” (Job 42:5 NIV). And my snow story ends the same way. After a few days of blizzards in Estes Park, the winter retreated, and the peaks appeared again—more radiant than ever in their new coat of snow. And that’s the hope for us today. What hides God from our view is temporary. The fog will lift. The skies will clear. And our hearts will rejoice in the Lord again. In the meantime, we trust His faithfulness, search our souls, and keep pressing forward. No matter what might block our view of Him, remember His promise: “So do not fear, for I am with you” (Isaiah 41:10 NIV).

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