I sit quietly on my deck in the still and black. For some reason, this night seems darker and more anticipatory than normal. I am absorbed into a benevolent and wise stillness, thankful that the motion detector light does not come on. Electric light would be a garish and blasphemous intrusion into such peaceful darkness.
I sit quietly, listening to the chorus of night creatures singing within the cathedral of trees that frame my backyard. Backlit softly by gray skies, the trees are perfectly still, perfectly at rest. Tonight they stand peaceful and fulfilled, content with tonight and unconcerned about tomorrow’s storms. I think it’s a reverent peace they hold. Perhaps they are singing too. Yes, they must be singing. They are participating in the chorus of praise dutifully and naturally sung by the night creatures.
I sit and marvel. You hear their song. Through their song You whisper to me in the stillness. Through all my distractions and distractedness, You whisper. Through my wandering, You whisper. Transcending my guilt, You whisper. Stillness is Your voice. It rides the song of the night creatures. Its message is not clear, but its presence is – if only I take time to listen. You call me. You remind me of Yourself.
I remember that You are the Author of this serene stillness. You are unconcerned by my troubles. It’s not that You don’t care; it’s that my troubles melt away in Your presence. You take away their power or use them for Your purposes. Sovereign.
You have created every cell in these creatures. You have given them their voice and appointed their time to sing. Only they and You know the words they sing. Only You know the scale and the meter of their music. Their song rises to You. Have You given each of these invisible creatures a name? Does each have a personality? How well You must know them.
These cathedral-forming trees hold my gaze. They were here before me. They have seen me grow from childhood. They will live on long after I am gone, which I find a strangely peaceful realization as my fate connects me with the generations who lived here before me. You know these trees. You know their stories. How long do these trees live? They will perhaps live a century or more altogether. I doubt that they will be more still or reverent than they are tonight. And You will be sovereign and good through all their nights: still or blowing, peaceful or disturbed, parched or drenched. You see it all. You know. You know.
I look up to the ceiling of this cathedral. A star-deprived sky, barely illuminated, greets my gaze. And You are there. Perhaps You float with the passing clouds, accepting the praise of these creatures who perfectly fulfill their purpose and their duty to You. Would that I were more like them. I am reminded of Your goodness and care. Like these creatures, my life is short and insignificant. I am not worthy of Your attention. What is man that you are mindful of him? How does the mind of the Holy consider the heart of the base?
But it’s Your love that whispers through the stillness, floating down to me through the rising chorus. I cannot forget my guilt or my difficulties. I don’t know my own heart or mind. I cannot control my circumstances, and they overwhelm me. I wish I could surrender all. But I can’t. Or won’t. I don’t know which. I am hopelessly suspended someplace between my inability and my unwillingness to surrender to You. Would that I were more like these creatures, perfectly fulfilling their duty. Perfectly at peace in this holy cathedral.
My words are jaded and insincere. My thoughts bounce and fail to grip. But for one small moment I remember You. I feel Your benevolent sovereignty. My worries – though I know they will be back – melt away. They revere the song of these creatures.
And for one short moment, mindful of Your presence, I am at peace in the cathedral of my backyard, lost in the song of these creatures.
Words From My Porch 