So often the prelude to the rhapsody is the ticking of a
clock. Like a toddler waiting to be lifted into the arms of God, we sometimes
tire of looking up, hands outstretched, and content ourselves instead with the
blocks and toys which surround us. But then the embrace comes and we are
raised. And we remember what we were waiting for.
My theology stresses the reality of continued, continuing
revelation: God speaks, not spake. It affirms that every person is worth
communicating with, even if you’re God. No—especially if you’re God. But it is
sometimes a real wrestle to know when He is speaking and what He wants. It
takes attentiveness, and patience. Sometimes weeks pass without a whisper. “And
he hath put a new song in my mouth,” soliloquizes the Psalmist. Ah, the taste
of that song. But two verses earlier, he wrote, “I waited patiently for the
Lord, and he inclined unto me and heard my cry.” The song only comes after the
wait, after the cry. And it is always put
or placed in my mouth. I cannot conjure it or command it. Every poet knows
this. The mornings glisten once in a while. So much scent of sidewalk before
the smell of honeysuckle. The music is a gift and one can only stalk the Spirit
and wait. How many hours does a prophet spend under a juniper tree or inside a
cave before the gentle rustle of leaves and the still, small voice?
It’s sort of like this: Was it last summer we were camping
at the Henry Cowell Redwoods? When we pulled up to the forest, four-year-old Emerson
said he knew we would see squirrels. But the squirrels in the camp proved very
elusive, very timid. After a day of camping, I had seen brief glimpses of a
couple of squirrels and chipmunks off in the trees and bushes, but not a single
furry animal made its way into our camp. I asked my young son if he had seen
any squirrels. He told me no. So we went on a squirrel hunt. As we walked I
told him to listen very carefully, and if he heard a rustling, we would watch
the bushes carefully. After a short distance, the bushes quaked a little. We
stopped and strained our attention toward the spot. After watching for a while,
we finally caught sight of a slight movement. But as we kept watching, we found
only a small bird hopping around in the leaves. We went on. Emerson climbed a
tree and we went down a little trail. No squirrels. I prayed, “Heavenly Father,
Emerson knew he would see a squirrel, and it’s important to him. Can you help?”
Just then I saw a squirrel at the foot of a camper in a nearby campsite. I tried
to point it out to Emerson. He couldn’t see it. We went closer, slowly. The squirrel
ran into the bushes. “Did you see it?” I asked. “I think so. I saw the bushes
move.” But he wasn’t content with that. We surrounded the little rodent and
listened as he crashed through the bushes. Now, I have more experience stalking
squirrels than my son does, and I’ve got a bit of a height advantage so I saw
the squirrel a couple of times as it darted back and forth. But Emerson never
caught a clear view. We walked on. “Well, thanks for trying,” I said to God. I
bet He laughed at that. “Trying?” Within a few feet, I saw another squirrel at
the base of a tree. I tiptoed Emerson over and lifted him up. He saw it. He
wanted to get closer, so he walked after it. It ran up the tree, chattering,
and another squirrel joined it. Then it happened. Like a flood. Like an ocean
wave. Like sunlight or like grace, God poured down what we had so cautiously been
stalking. The squirrels ran around and up and down the tree, chasing each
other. They ran two feet from our toes. One stopped on the tree, just above our
heads and looked squarely at us. I almost thought he winked. He may have been
an angel disguised as a squirrel, but my prayer had been answered. Emerson’s
faith had been answered. The wait had been rewarded. We saw. Our attentiveness
had paid off. Sometimes it does.
A day or so later we were out for a family walk through
thick green woods. It was evening and the light was gray and mossy. It slid in
sideways to illuminate the trail. We were walking through these curvy,
moss-covered trees at twilight, and we saw an owl. First owl I’ve ever seen. It
was hunched in the branches of a tree, and we stopped to tie a shoelace or
something. And then it spread its enormous wings and lumbered through the air
off to another perch. Grace unbidden.
Days go by, and months, and the reverie remains restrained.
The mute muses shy by disguised as fellow pedestrians on the sidewalk we
stroll. Life is just life. Mondays are mundane, and nothing extraordinary
presents itself. And then the symphony awakens, stretching like a dance; the
song is planted and shoots forth and ripens all at once. And we partake of the
fruit of the tree of life.
