People of a certain age likely have a vessel of pictures. To be clear, I’m not talking about a well curated photo album. For me, the vessel is a cheap plastic bin, about 8” W x 15” L x 4” D. Full of pictures. Many of them loosely organized in the original paper envelopes that they gave me at Target or Walmart or the drug store where the film was processed. Many of them are labeled: Summer 2005, Christmas 2003, Nela Baby Photos, STL trip 2004, etc. It’s not a great organization system, but its full of serendipity. If there is any thought of hunting through them for a picture, I might as well go through the entire bin. Probably over a thousand photos piled high. A few often slip to the floor as I reach for them.

Recently, I read the book “American Gods” by Neil Gaiman. The small g variety. It’s a roadtrip romp through the Midwest. The main character is a recently released prisoner who, unbeknownst to him, makes a deal to be the bodyguard of the Norse god, Odin. It’s a fun book. Emotive at times. I really liked the main character’s love for his wife, who died days before he is released from prison and haunts him (in a good way) through the rest of the book. At the climax, there is a showdown between the old gods, mostly immigrants from ancient lands who couldn’t quite make it in America and the new American gods (think Santa Claus), who capture our imagination and usurp our more deeply held spiritual wishes in accordance with cultural convenience. It is the kind of book that makes me ask questions like, “Does Jesus actually stack up to Santa Claus most Decembers?” and “What do Americans worship without knowing they are doing so?”

The site of the book’s final battle is Lookout Mountain near Chattanooga, TN. In real American history, the mountain has special significance as a sacred site of native American culture, an important Civil War strategic location, and – in contemporary times – as a tourist destination known for its extravagant gnome displays. It now captures people’s interest with the unique style of advertising that you see painted on old barns on rural highways: “You’re Almost There – Lookout Mountain!” You might call it a tourist trap. The author calls it a “thin place” where the geography, topography, and natural beauty of the place have attracted millions of people for many reasons over the centuries.

In the author’s world, a thin place is a location where gods gather because it is where people have historically gathered. These places hold significance that is mutable, where a constant battle for meaning shapes peoples’ perceptions and experiences. Is the mountain a site of worship, military strategy, or commercialism? It can be all of these things and more. Ultimately, that meaning does not have to be culturally defined. It can be highly individualized and your own belief significantly influences the experience. In my own belief system, I worship a God who created the earth as a bountiful garden for all to share. This belief often leads me to natural areas in honor of the sublime beauty that no human hand will ever be able to create.

In the Cherokee language, Chattanooga is translated as “rock coming to a point” or “end of the mountain.” On top of Lookout Mountain, as modern tourism marketing goes, you can see seven states. It is a visionary place. I wonder, before there were states, how did Indigenous people describe what could be seen from that point? On what occasions did people gather at the “end of the mountain?”

In summer of 2007, I was preparing to go to graduate school to get an MBA from Indiana University. This was a major life altering moment for me. The week before school started, I went with my wife and two young children to Athens, GA to visit family. On the way back, we stopped in Chattanooga. At the hotel, I distinctly remember my fearless 18 month old son taking a dive into the water at the kiddie pool and my daughter being enthralled by the massive miniature train exhibit. I didn’t consider our climb up Lookout Mountain a pilgrimage to a thin place, it was more of a curiosity journey. 

When I was reading “American Gods”, I had not thought of Lookout Mountain for many years. But as I read the book, Gaiman’s description of the narrow passageways and the tiny kitsch gnome displays, transported me back nearly 2 decades. In 2007, I was a young father – almost excited as my kids to see what this mountain was all about. I remembered how happy I was with my family.

After coming home from Chattanooga, I started the MBA program. I was not emotionally prepared for the stressful experience. It became a quick dissent into insomnia and eventually severe depression. My bipolar symptoms were severe and I feared for my life. That Thanksgiving, I spent the academic break at the local hospital’s psych unit. I passed out and did a face plant at the hospital when they drew my blood. My wife visited me at the hospital that Thanksgiving weekend to tell me she wanted a divorce. My life crumbled in three short months.

It is a history that I do not like to remember. I had buried the memories of Chattanooga – so sweet in the moment – but made bitter because they were the last wholesome moments before the nuclear family that I thought would last forever fell apart.

After finishing the book, I was compelled to remember that time more vividly by finding a picture from the vacation and seeing what our smiles looked like – perhaps at the Chattanooga Choo Choo hotel or standing in front of the massive glass wall at the aquarium. Hopefully, to see what we looked like on top of that mountain. I looked on Facebook and through a couple photo albums. I could not find anything.

As I prepared for Christmas a few weeks later, I wrote a letter to my daughter who was not going to be home for the holiday. I wanted to find pictures to include in the envelope. I looked through my bin of haphazard pictures. I wasn’t sure what I wanted. So, I started going through the picture categories – Nela’s 1st Christmas, Christmas 2003, Christmas 2004, and the couple of envelopes marked Random. Nothing seemed to fit. 

I started thumbing through the loose stacks of completely uncategorized photos and came across a picture of the kids. My daughter, 4 years old. My son at 18 months. They were standing in front of a railing with a vast expanse of hills and forests behind them. They were on top of Lookout Mountain. I was stunned and stared at their precious innocence. My heart ached from the divorce that soon followed that moment in time. I wanted to go back to that place – to that thin place – and somehow protect them. 

It is good to remember being happy. It is good to search for the sacred. I enjoy reserving time for sentimentality – to conjure feelings from specific moments and make an earnest attempt to not have them tarnished by the passage of time. While harkening back to that mountaintop feeling may remind me of the steep descent, it helps me remember how much I’ve learned from the peaks and valleys – to appreciate them all for what I have learned and to cherish the ones who were with me along the way. 

My hope is that we can also find thin places in the flat expenses of everyday life and we may infuse them with the belief that there is a God of forgiveness and reconciliation that, with time, allows us to taste the bittersweet and know that it is good. 

I placed the picture from the mountain to the side and kept on my search for what I wanted to share with my daughter. I found 2 pictures of Christmas holidays from her childhood; one captured in black and white. Another picture was of her and her brother playing in the snow, not much older than the one from Lookout Mountain. They looked very happy. I smiled at the photos in my hands. Feeling more sweet than bitter. 

I came across other poignant pictures. I pulled a few for my siblings. I did not attempt to organize them – instead, maintaining their randomness, preferring the perennial exercise of surprise of unearthed memories.

That bin has its own sense of thinness, of sacredness. It reminds me that life was, is, and always will be full of sweetness.  

Sifting through pictures
Seconds to minutes, the years
All of those I’ve loved