The Summit You Don't See

 

Have you ever seen photos of people on top of mountains? They are filled with happiness, and everyone enjoys seeing a victorious image. However, in reality, it took a great deal of work and challenges to get there. We only get to see the good side and the happy ending.

In life, we encounter people and we only get to see the moments when they are smiling, not the struggle it took for them to get out of bed. We see them at church on Sunday, singing openly along to well-loved hymns, arms raised in what appeared to be spontaneous devotion. But we don't catch them on Saturday night, turning and tossing until 3 AM, wrestling with thoughts that felt overwhelmingly burdensome for their heart to bear.

These unseen struggles, these silent battles, are not unnoticed. They are acknowledged and understood.

I know this intimately because I've lived it. I've been that person smiling in the church pew while my world felt like it was crumbling behind the scenes. I've posted scriptures about hope while my heart wrestled with doubt in the quiet moments no one else could see.

We notice the answered prayers—the work that eventually came, the bond that was mended, the door that swung open after diligent striving. But we didn't see the long silence before. The prayers that appeared to bounce off with no answer. The dawns filled with the soft whisper of "God, are you there?" that echoed softly in empty spaces, met only with silence.

You saw me writing about gratitude and posting verses about hope. You didn't see the tear-stained journal pages where I rewrote the same desperate prayer over and over again, wondering if my words were falling into a void.

But God acknowledged all the battles that I never told anybody about.

He saw the 2 AM panic attacks that I weathered alone, my chest tight with anxiety that felt like it might swallow me whole. He recognized each minor triumph—putting on clothes when depression urged me to stay in bed, opting for kindness when hurt tempted me to grow bitter, and expressing hope when everything within me wanted to surrender. This steadfast resolve amid challenges, this struggle against succumbing to despair, is far from pointless. But God remembered all those battles I never told anyone about.

I've learned that worship isn't always a song—it's the quiet surrender during moments when no one else is paying attention.

It's not comparing and trusting when everyone else's life seems flawless on social media.

It's stifling bitterness when someone else gets what you've been praying for.

It's holding on to faith when it feels like you've been left behind.

It's shouting "God, You're good," even when the edges of life feel like they're unraveling.

And then… the door creaks open.

After all the striving and faithful waiting, God mended what seemed to be shattered.

However, we do not always discuss the silence that preceded the door swinging open.

The prayers that had bounced back unanswered.

The dawns of questioning silences"God, are You there?"—hushed softly in empty halls.

And yet, even so… God refers to it as worship.

Not just the Sunday morning songs or the eloquent prayers spoken in groups. He called worship the silent tears I cried in my car after difficult days, sitting in parking lots where no one could see me fall apart and somehow find the strength to put myself back together. The decision to get up and try again when failure felt like it was final. The choice to extend grace when I felt utterly empty. The whispered "I still trust You" in hospital waiting rooms, lawyers' offices, and anywhere else fear tried to set up camp in my heart.

We live in a world that often highlights the mountaintop moments and grand celebrations, the instances when everything falls perfectly into place. But God sees the entire journey. He appreciates the chapters I prefer not to write, the scenes I prefer not to omit, and the intact parts of my story that are too bare for others to view.

My life, whether you like it or not, is not a collection of events—it's a cohesive experience. It's a testament to resilience, faith, and strength that I didn't even realize I possessed until I was forced to develop them.

The struggles that I fight silently? He respects them, holding in awe the strength and courage it requires to fight them when no one sees.

That quiet determination? He sees it as something Godly. It is the effort to press on when all the world around you is screaming to give up, the bravery to meet each day with hope, and the resilience to trust His plan even when the path forward is shrouded in blackness.

Choosing to continue on when nobody would fault you for giving up? He considers it an act of worship.

So the next time you wonder if your battles are invisible, keep this in mind: the God who called stars into being notices every battle fought in secret. He's not expecting you to be put together to call your life worthy of worship. He's examining hearts just now—tired, struggling, trusting despite the not knowing—and He's declaring them holy.

I'm learning that worship is more than answered prayers. It's in waiting when waiting doesn't seem probable. It's in the getting up when staying down would be easier. It's in the choosing to trust He is good, even when life isn't easy, even when His goodness seems hidden behind clouds of circumstance.

Your mundane battles, your silent endurance, your decision to trust when trust is risky—these are all acts of worship. They do not merely strengthen you; they shift the very heart of God.

And that kind of worship? It shifts heaven

Sometimes the most profound acts of faith happen in the quiet moments when no one is watching. Your unseen battles, your silent victories, your hidden hopes—they all matter. They're all seen. And in God's eyes, they're all worship.