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It was the end of my first year as a young widow on my own with two children. We'd just moved to Chicago. My parents wanted to give me some time alone, so my dad met the moving van, helped my children unpack boxes, and took them off to music camp. I was being given an incredible gift of freedom after a year of coping with the loss of my husband and learning the pace of single parenthood.

With my move over and the children in good hands, I took some friends up on an offer to use their chalet in Switzerland in the hamlet of Le Breona, near the town of La Forclas, to be alone and devote time to getting to know God better. Before long, I was on an Alpine trail hiking the two-hour trek up the mountain.

But instead of freedom, I was feeling anguish. At first I thought it was only a side effect of exhaustion from the move, the long flight from the United States, and the strenuous hike. But as I sat alone on the chalet's terrace, I saw that while I had expected to be feeling closer to God, I was actually questioning his very existence. I was consumed with bitterness about my husband's passing and with fear for my children's future -- and my own. I felt stupid and na•ve to have ever believed in God.

On top of feeling I'd lost touch with God, I suddenly realized that when my friend had led me to the chalet, I'd been so dazed by fatigue that I hadn't paid attention to the careful directions he gave me. And I was expected to be able to navigate the mountain on my own, going down to the village in the valley for more supplies.

As I sat there, I wasn't even sure in which direction the village was! The trail was full of hairpin curves with side paths to the other side of the mountain. I had only three days' worth of provisions. I pleaded to God for help, but I had absolutely no conviction that there was any other power at hand than my own attempt to calm my fear.

By the third day, I had only a small bit of cheese and bread left, and I knew I had to do something. As I looked out from the terrace, I noticed a flagpole several hundred yards down the mountain. A magnificent Swiss flag was flying there. I remembered passing it on the way up. I realized that using the flagpole as a marker, I could begin my journey down the mountain accurately. So I set off. But when I got to the flagpole, I felt completely stymied, not knowing whether to go right or left. Again, I prayed, but again, it felt like a futile exercise.

At that moment I heard the sound of a tractor engine, far down the mountain, but in a specific direction. I remembered that at the base of the climb there was a road paralleling the footpath for a short distance before the path turned upward. From there, it was clear to me which face of the mountain I was to stay on. Looking carefully for signs, I saw the huge pile of rocks my friend had pointed out as a landmark. I knew the sight line to the flagpole must be clear from there. Before long, excited and relieved, I found the village.

From then on, my days at the chalet were magical. Understanding now the basics of orienteering, I was all over the mountain -- way beyond the tree line and down to other villages. For companionship I made friends with the marmots who were curious about my visits near their rock lair.

But despite my good humor, I still felt no peace about God. The hours of comfort and spiritual growth I'd expected from reading the Bible and Mary Baker Eddy's books were nonexistent. Instead, I found those hours frustrating and confusing; I felt no connection with the words of the books. The basic questions of my life were going unanswered. My nights were long and sleepless and troubled. I could only look forward to the freedom of my daytime hikes.

Late one afternoon I hiked farther up the mountain than ever before. The view of the vast new glacier fields across the mountain range made them bigger than the sky. The joy of exploring the earth's beauty overwhelmed me. I'd never had that kind of experience before.

Then, suddenly, I lost my footing in the loose glacier rock and slid painfully down the slope I had just climbed. I tried to get up, but my foot wouldn't support my weight. Dread set in. The bare expanse of this mountain face offered no shelter, and I knew that without extra clothing, I couldn't be safe there through the night.

The feeling of danger brought all the bitterness I'd felt about my husband's passing to the forefront. I saw my own worst fear: that I would be left alone on the earth, vulnerable and unsupported.

This time, I refused to pray. I cried again every tear of self-pity I'd ever cried before. I don't know how long I lay there in the rough gravel. The sun was setting very fast. I didn't even care what happened to me.

Then I noticed a sound. It was the small, simple sound of water -- the glacier melt -- trickling down the mountain. I'd noticed it before, but this time it struck me as the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard -- nature's symphony. I felt the gentlest breeze on my face, cooling the heat of my tears. Then I felt, again, the stillness that for decades had characterized my faith.

"I am here," said an inner voice. "Now and always. It has always been me."

I knew this was the voice of God telling me that all the good I had ever experienced in my life, all the beauty of those innocent pleasures of my days in the Alps, had been signs of God's love for me. And I saw that my husband had never really been the source of my care and support. He was, of course, an essential proof of God's unchanging love. The forms of the love shown to me would come and go, but the love itself was constant. At that moment, I knew I could give up the disappointment in my life by understanding that the source of that love could never be altered.

Fully convinced that I was in the presence of the Divine, I stood up spontaneously. My ankle had been so swollen I couldn't remove my boot. But now it was suddenly strong and flexible. Carefully, I maneuvered through the crushed rock and found the trail back to the chalet. I arrived just as twilight began to welcome the stars.

Many metaphors came out of my days on that mountain. The orienteering skills have reminded me, in many moments of doubt and confusion, that the Ten Commandments are reliable guides to get me off the mountains of pride and self-will. When I lose faith in God's care for me, those are almost invariably the issues -- wanting something I can't have, thinking I know better than God how things ought to be, and thinking I want to do things on my own. But we can't do anything alone. Every breath, blink, and swallow show God's grace -- unearned and operating in ways that nurture, support, and draw us to the origin of all the good.

Maybe that's the point -- the good in our lives. In many languages, good is the name for God. How often I've overlooked the good -- or belittled and dismissed it. But I'm learning to recognize the good things in life, no matter how small they may seem. And to honor the source of goodness. Even during the hardest times, we can thank God for holding us, and never believe that his absence -- a vacuum -- could be true.

What it all boils down to for me is that God initiates our relationship to him. He gives us the desire to know him -- and the means for doing so. It's God's intention that we know how we are being loved.

Reproduced with permission. © 2002 Christian Science Sentinel (www.cssentinel.com). All rights reserved.