But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace toward me has not been in vain. A Pilgrim at Tinker Creek I live by a creek, Tinker Creek, in a valley in Virginia's Blue Ridge. I think of this house clamped to the side of Tinker Creek as an anchorhold. It holds me at anchor to the rock bottom of the creek itself and it keeps me steadied in the current, as a sea anchor does, facing the stream of light pouring down. Theirs is the one simple mystery of creation from nothing, of matter itself, anything at all, the given.
Mountains are giant, restful, absorbent.
You can heave your spirit into a mountain and the mountain will keep it, folded, and not throw it back as some creeks will. But the mountains are home. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek , pp. He heals the brokenhearted, and binds up their wounds. He covers the heavens with clouds, prepares rain for the earth, makes grass grow on the hills.