From the 11th Floor
In the Bible, Israel always wandered uphill to betray God.
High places.
Where the air was thinner and the idols were closer.
They burned incense.
They burned children.
They burned their covenant with Yahweh to ash.
Smoke rose… and so did the rebellion.
And I get it.
Because I climbed my own high places.
Water towers.
Rust-bitten ladders.
Illegal ascents in the dark when the shouting at home got too loud.
Drunken words between my father and brother slurred into fists and slammed doors.
I never liked the smell of whiskey,
but I hated the silence that followed even more.
So I climbed.
Not to worship… but to escape.
To breathe air that hadn’t been filtered through pain.
To look down on the world that looked down on me.
And oh, that moment at the top—
when the wind slapped my face like a second baptism.
When I could see thunderstorms in the distance
like God's wrath crackling in the clouds.
Lightning slashing the sky like it was trying to write something in cursive.
I could taste the rain before it ever fell.
Smell the ozone like metal and miracles.
Feel adrenaline dripping like sweat down my spine.
It was holy.
And it was dangerous.
Because lightning + steel = obituary.
So I’d climb down.
Reluctantly.
Like a fallen angel crawling back to earth.
I still pass that tower on my way to work.
Still look up at it like a relic of my own private gospel.
My sanctuary in the sky.
My rebellion without a cause… or maybe with too many.
Because there’s something about getting high—
not with pills, not with pot—
but with perspective.
The hush before the waves.
The hush before God speaks.
Like Babel before the scatter.
Like Eden before the exile.
And now…
Now I’m older.
But I still crave the climb.
Only this time, I’m not reaching for escape.
I’m reaching for surrender.
I see myself someday,
barefoot in the sand,
sitting in a cheap lawn chair with a million-dollar view.
The surf preaching louder than any pulpit.
Casting my cares like bread upon the waters.
Letting go.
Letting God.
And in that salty breeze,
with stars winking above and ocean roaring below,
I’ll find another high place.
Not built by rebellion.
But by rest.
A throne of peace.
A monument of mercy.
And maybe—just maybe—
I'll finally feel home.
Not because I climbed…
but because He came down.