The Reading Room

This morning I couldn’t shake this picture of Zion Heights—how it’s not just a place I talk about, but a place that lives up on this mountain with me.

There’s an entire library up here. Real as the frost on my window. If I just climb a little higher, I can walk straight into it.

No need for a lock. No “quiet please.”

Just shelves full of everything a spirit might need.

Homeschooling.

Homesteading.

Healing.

Alchemy.

Native and foreign arts.

Ancient stories from people who fought, prayed, survived, and kept going.

It’s all there, like YAH set it on the mountain Himself.

I climbed up yesterday to charge my batteries on the generator and cleaned and dusted as I was waiting. As I was picking out my next reads, I realized something that hit me square in the chest:

I’m not just reading from that library — I’m stocking it.

Every book I’ve written.

Every blog I scratch out in the cold.

Every revelation YAH gives me after a long month or a long season.

Those go on the shelves too. Not because I think I’m some great scholar — far from it — but because YAH tells His people to remember. To document. To leave markers so the next generation doesn’t have to start from zero.

So, yes. I’m leaving my books in the library of Zion Heights.

And I’m up here fixing the roof while I’m at it. Scraping off the weathered wreckage and replacing it with something new. I'm making sure the rain and snow can’t steal what YAH told me to protect.

Generations will come after me — even if I never meet them — and they’ll need these things. They’ll need truth. They’ll need stories of survival. They’ll need reminders that Creator still moves, still speaks, still leads people up mountains.

And if all I ever do is leave behind a stack of worn-out books and a roof that doesn’t leak for my girls, then I’ve done my job.