Over the past several weeks I have enjoyed sitting in nature, and every time I have been outside I have had the privilege of sitting near a tree. There is something so inspiring about our woody friends. It is the trees that stand tall, without movement, or uttering a word. It is the tree that lives well beyond the lifespan of the creatures making their home in them. While the trees stand in silence, I can not help but hear their words of wisdom, every time I am around them.

We cut down a Christmas tree today. And I could not help but notice this annual tradition in a different way this year. The evergreen has become a hallmark inside the home of every Christmas observing home across the world. During the Advent season, it is the coniferous trees that have come to symbolize the eternal life made available by the coming Savior, Jesus. While I have all sorts of good memories associated with the Christmas tree, there is a part of me that now mourns the loss of life of the trees that have sat in my living room.

Looking deep into the prickly caverns filled with all sorts of nostalgic ornaments, I am thankful to this Blue Spruce and for the sacrifice it has made for us this year. While partially sad, I am also filled with joy, as I think about how the tree has been a part of my advent celebration my whole life, even when I haven’t noticed it. For it is not only us humans who eagerly await the Savior, but it the whole earth, including the trees.

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,How steadfast are your branches!

Your boughs are green in summer's clime And through the snows of wintertime.

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,How steadfast are your branches!

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,What happiness befalls me when oft

at joyous Christmas-time Your form inspires my song and rhyme.O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,What happiness befalls me

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,Your boughs can teach a lesson

That constant faith and hope sublime Lend strength and comfort through all time.

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,Your boughs can teach a lesson.

As the prelude of winter has dawned, deer hunting season is here. I have looked forward to this time of year for several months, and an excuse to retire into the wilderness for an extended amount of time is just what my strained mind was in the need of. It was hours before the sun rose up above the skeleton of the trees, that I settled into my blind.

As I sat in stillness, an eerie calm came over me as well as the darkness all around. While the sun was well below the horizon, the crunchy layer of snow boldly reflected the moons rays in such a way that it lit up the entire forest. As the absence of noise toyed with my mind, I began to turn my ears back and forth into the unknown, gently tuning my ears to strain for a sound, much like an fm radio scanning for a discernable signal.

And then it happened; a distant crunch started off in the distance. At first it was very sporadic and soft. Hoping to save myself from heartache, I rationed the noise to be only a squirrel or perhaps an eager rabbit scavenging for breakfast. But as the steps came closer, they grew heavier and more frequent. The cold appendages on my body soon warmed with the pump of adrenaline shot into my body, and the theater within me which was absent of noise was soon filled with the racing thump of my heartbeat. It grew even louder and it came close enough that I could sense what direction it was coming from. Without turning my heard, I stretched my eyes to try in make out the figure of the large creature making the crunching noise. Then I gently turned my head, hoping not to startle whatever it was that was coming closer.

The sun was now slowly illuminating the distant horizon, and with it I could make out the deer approaching me. As I positioned my body to it, the noise suddenly stopped. And then a single stomp of the hoof. Without warning a loud huff came from the nostrils of the deer and it echoed into the wilderness that was empty of sound, and caused my heart to leap within the cold chamber of my body. And then he gave another stomp of the foot, and then another huff. This standoff between the young buck and whatever scent he smelled or noise he heard in the distance went on for several minutes. Pulling back my hammer, I could stand this showdown no longer. I gently raised my gun to this worthy opponent, and as quickly as I could prepare myself to shoot, the juvenile explorer raised away.

Part of me was sad that the free meal got away; after all I did spend almost $30 on a license this year. The other part of me was perfectly content in leaving the woods that morning with nothing more than the excitement of the hunt, and my numb toes and fingers.

I thank you God, for the thrill of your creation.
For all creatures big and small, and even the ones that can’t move at all. Amen.

I wasn’t quite sure what time of year it was for a while, as the cold has come and gone over the past several weeks. We have flirted with winter, but then a warm spring-like day throws us for a loop. But as I stepped out this morning, I could feel a certain bite on my skin that assured my soul that the frigged cold was here to stay. I have mixed feelings about the cold. Part of me is invigorated by the bite that gives a blow to the skin; the same playful part of me that enjoyed jumping in the snow in just my bathing suit years ago as a child. Although sometimes uncomfortable, cold can wake us up from the lethargy of the heat.

But, there is a part of the coldness that creates a barrier between me and the wild. On a warm spring, winter, or autumn day, the natural world seems to give a warm hug to the visitor. In the winter, we humans are reminded how alien we are to the wild cold. No matter how many layers of clothing we put on, sitting still in the cold can be painful, and sometimes unbearable to the human visitor. It is during the warmer seasons that we see ourselves as part of the wild, and although quite different, we can easily see the creatures around as our brothers and sisters of creation. I have a harder time doing this when the cold is here.

As I heard nature’s sermon in the past seasons, I have heard the resounding message of “being still”. I have tried to train myself, as I heard these words of God through the priestly creatures around. Just as I have begun to get used to stilling in the wild, I have started hearing a different homily, with a different virtue altogether. I have now seen nature move desperately for survival. It is through the restlessness of the white-tailed deer that it stays alive during the frigid winter nights, and it is through the extensive pilgrimage from the north, that the Canada goose survives the cold season.

Perhaps it is not the movement, or the stilling that is bad. Maybe it is not the cold or heat that is a vice. There is a time for everything under the sun as Ecclesiastes says, and perhaps nature has just gotten the timing down in life. Creation seems to know when to move, and when to sit still. Perhaps we can learn something about timing from our brothers and sisters of creation, as they react to the different seasons of life.

Still me O Lord, when I need to be stilled,
and nudge me, when I need to be nudged.
Warm me O God, when my heart is cold,
and cool me when my skin is sweltered. Amen.

Snow has finally come. The bite of the empty cold has finally found a friend with the falling snowflakes. Although I often see only the ugliness of winter, I see some pleasant in this winter wonderland. The brown lifeless vegetation seems somehow vindicated by the uniform blanket of white covering it. As the snow begins to pile, I begin to see more and more of my winged Canadian friends from the north. The Canada geese come in large groups, loudly announcing their arrival with honks and groans, as if they are proud of the chorus of tune they sing, no matter how off pitch it seems to my ears.

These large fowl congregate in large groups slowing shifting one by one, from one field to another and over to the pond in front of my apartment. As they move across the road, they totally disregard the traffic, creating a delay as people sit helplessly behind their wheels; the occasional American impatiently honks his horn in hopes to speed up the process. I sit in warmth behind the pane of glass, with a cozy cup of hot chocolate in my hands, while watching my immigrant friends approach the semi frozen pond.

There seems to be a leader among the flock as one goose inches his webbed toes off of the solid ground and onto the paper-thin layer of ice. Stepping onto the ice, brother goose levitates magically for a moment on the surface of the water, but just as quickly as he bravely stepped out onto the unknown, his body broke through the ice clumsily splashing those admiring his plunge.

I find it comforting to see awkwardness among the natural world. As I often fumble around and makes a fool of myself in many ways, it is refreshing to see even a graceful creature as a goose make others laugh at his clumsiness from time to time.

God of the clumsy and graceful, use me.
Lord of all that lives both big and small,

redeem me. Amen.

There seems to be a time between seasons that is ugly. As the trees have lost all their color we know that Autumn is gone. Yet all we see is brown and gray, and all we feel is the empty seasonlessness on the skin. The air is too warm to feel winter, and too cold to see spring on the horizon.

I used to get quite homesick as a child. My world was centered around the predictable order of my home and family. To leave that home left me with an empty and lost feeling. No matter how enjoyable the outside world was, I could think of nothing else than wanting to return to my home and to things familiar. I have similar feelings between seasons. It is as the fallen leaves of autumn lay on the forest floor empty of color, I ache to return to the familiarity of fall, or to move on to the predictability of winter.

We all desire order and predictability in some way or another. We hate waiting for God to move in the midst of placelessness; Sitting leaves us vulnerable and helpless. But as the the oak faithfully sits bare in the late autumn knowing that he will be carried through another season, we need also to quiet and still ourselves and allow God to do the moving and speaking, even during times of unpredictability and order.

As you hovered over the chaotic waters at the beginning,

hover over the placelessness of my soul.

When I feel homesick for direction and order,open the buds you desire in me.
Be present to me great choreographer of time, even between the seasons.

As the Michigan temperatures begin to plummet, frost has found its way into the area. The falling temperatures usher in many good things like the beautiful array of colors and the gift snowflakes, but the coming winter also brings much death, like the death of all my friends that creepeth along the ground. So, like a frantic mother looking for her lost child, I began wading through thigh deep pastures, desperately searching for brother mantis, and the corn spiders that fascinated me so much. However, with much disappointment my hunt was fruitless, not finding even a carcass to mourn beside. A pasture that was once busy with the hustle and bustle of the insect metropolis now lays lifeless and gray.

Hopeful that the inevitable fate of death would somehow pass away from my fruitful friend, I brought my tomato plant indoor the night before the frost came. I thought that perhaps the remaining blossoms could somehow give me just one more tomato, and the single sickly fruit clinging nearby would somehow magically turn red. I have found that even bringing it in every night it begins to whither, as is lacking the sunshine that it really needs to flourish. Its time of harvest is past, and its time of life is fleeting. I am reminded of the depressing mantra of Ecclesiastes; “…A time to live, and a time to die.” I should dispose of the plant and perhaps replace it with a Halloween or Thanksgiving decoration, but I do not, and I continue to look to it expecting what is inevitably not going to happen.

Just the other day I saw a truck traveling on the highway in the lane beside me; it was carrying two tombs. Expanding the entire width of the truck’s bed, these simple concrete boxes created a gapers block in traffic. While people die as often as they are born, this simple transit was business as usual for the driver. Yet, there was something profound in seeing tombs racing down the highway at seventy mile per hour. One could not help but gaze at these two things, and create a slow of traffic behind them in the process. I immediately wanted to know the story behind the tombs. Were they for someone special? How did they die? Was it natural causes? Was it a car accident that happened while gawking at tombs in the lane beside them? I did not have any of these questions answered, and as quickly as I could, I sped up and raced past the truck.

Whether it is the empty shell of an insect, a miserable looking tomato plant, or the sight of a tomb that’s only purpose is to hold the corpse of a human; death has a certain sting to it. We as humans do not like to confront it, because it brings pain, confusion, and doubt. We like to live in comfort, having things figured out completely, and have strong convictions about everything in life. It often takes things like highway tombs, dead insects, and withering plants to force us to look at death, face to face and eye to eye. It is after this one on confrontation with the very ugly thing in the world, that some choose to cower and turn the other way, but others can stand firm in their dissatisfaction and spit in the face of death himself while saying “where is your sting, and where is your victory?”

If I come before my Maker and my Lord allows me to pick a season for eternity, it will be springtime. It is springtime that creation is at its best, and the possibilities are endless. I am convinced that the Church is a people of springtime. It is within Her that the people of God can breathe in the fresh spring air in the midst of a bitter winter. As winter inches closer and closer, and as my friends begin to die away, I take hope in God’s faithfulness to bring us through yet another winter and breathe back life into the gray. In a world surrounded by the monotony of death, there is a message of life that can satisfy the appetite for spring hidden within everyone.

Creator God, the one who breathes life into the world,breathe yet again, for our lungs are suffocating without you.God of winter, spring, summer, and fall,instill in us all the vision of spring, and the life that you have promised in the midst of death.

I stood inside a tree today. Yes, inside of a tree, and not just any tree but a gargantuan Cottonwood. I do not know the age of the tree exactly, but it looked as if it could have been at least 150 years old. There was still life throughout this tree as its offspring had grown up through their father’s root system, inside its woody caverns, and out towards the food of the sun. As I stepped inside of its hollowed bowels, I was greeted by a soft foot mat of woody fiber. The air was significantly cooler than the air outside, as the large cottonwood soaked in the cool air from last night and breathed it out today. I looked up and realized this organic shelter lacked a roof. I could see the blue sky above, and the little sunlight allowed just enough light to bring out the stoic texture within. I also noticed that inside, sound was dampened. I could still hear the outside, but only subtly. What I could hear in great magnitude was the beat of my heart, and my breath in and out. I sensed as though the tree and I shared a certain intimacy. This large friend of mine had created silence for me so that I could listen to the very breath that sustains me, and perhaps he could listen too. As I stopped my breath for a moment I realized that someone else was speaking. This large hollowed out tree was creating a faint tone of something like a pipe organ. As the wind and other waves of sound outside passed over its opening above, this tree was reverberating it into his own. It then occurred to me that this tree has been listening all along. Has it heard the language of Native Americans, what about the voice of those early Dutch settlers in this area, did he make sense of their words?

As I reflected on the days that he has seen, and the people whom he may have encountered, I begin to hear the things outside; An ambulance in the distance, the passing cars, and the airplane flying over head. As all these sounds break into the silence within, I realize that I am not the only one hearing them. This deep tone made by the Cottonwood now made sense to me. My ancient brother is not singing, or celebrating, but what I hear is a deep groan. Saint Paul writes to the church in Rome that “all of creation is groaning” for redemption and things made right. While I have often forgotten to groan for the sake of creation’s fall, this landmark in the middle of the woods groans and has been groaning all along for our hurt as well as his. As I continued to listen to this deep groan of mourning, I begin to groan as well. When Adam bit the apple we all suffered, in this fallen world sadness has crept into ever fabric of life. We as creatures of God should groan together, but we as creatures of Christ should also rejoice in the day that groaning will be no more, and the hymns declared by the cottonwood will only be hymns of praise.

Keep groaning for me O Cottonwood, and I will groan for you.
As the saints pray for me, pray for my fallen state O brother.
For our God is good and He hears our groans, let us rejoice in the midst of our cries.

“You ride on the wings of the wind, you make the winds your messengers, fire and flame your ministers" Psalm 102:3-4

In the midst of all the godly prophets of today, and of all the faithful ministers gathered around us, it is refreshing to find God’s word and works through a vast array of means. As I took another Michigan camping trip this weekend I was able to see God crying out to me in a new-found way. While studying at seminary to become a pastor, being around the clergy of creation reminded me that God is going to do God’s work with or without me, and this is as refreshing as the crisp water from an autumn lake.

When asked to rebuke his disciples for hysterically praising the work of God that they experienced, Christ told the Pharisees “if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out” (Luke 19:40). Being in a transitional time of life when I am trying to figure out what exactly is it that I am supposed to be doing in this world, I often find myself being reminded that the preaching of the Word of God and God’s work throughout the world is not somehow hinged on what I will or will not do. God’s Word will go forth! It is part of the DNA of the Word of God that it cannot be contained, and it will go out and not return empty, as the prophet Isaiah writes. God’s Word is not dependant on my feeble lips uttering a sound or preaching a word. If it comes to it, the stones will cry out, and all creation will sing for me in my silence. In the loudness of life it often takes utter silence to be reminded of God’s Word.

As the kayak broke the surface tension of the water, I immediately felt the tension I possessed shatter into a million pieces. The wind gently whispered across the water, gracefully moving me as it desired. I was reminded of the Psalmists words “you make the winds your messengers”. I reclined in my seat and sat motionless for a while, feeling the gentle messages of God moving me. Looking around and realizing that there was not another boat on the small kettle lake, I gently broke the subtle current and plunged the blade of my paddle deep into the water. With each stroke through the placid current, I picked up more speed and began hearing the whisper of the autumn breeze, and feeling the sting of the cool air on my ears. Being carried away with the pattern of the paddle-stroke, I was soon captivated by the scenery racing by me on shore.

Still reflecting on the words of the Psalmist, I soon found myself moved by the ministers of fire and flame. As I stopped pushing through the water, and the rippling mirror settled, I found myself enthralled by the reflection of a colorful array of trees ashore. In the midst of the early autumn green, there seemed to be a cluster of trees blazing, yet not being consumed. Perhaps this is what the burning bush looked like to Moses.

Wind of God move me,
Fire of God consume me,
Word of God change me.

Fungi intrigue me. It is such an exotic species. But, in many ways it is like all life, in that it needs decomposing organic material to survive; it is dependent on death. We enjoy the taste of fungus as it is piled on a juicy steak. I have heard that a small amount of certain fungus can kill when it is consumed. I have also heard of people enjoying mushrooms to reach a stellar high like no other. Fungi is a very sensitive organism, as certain species will only grow in just the right conditions during the right time of year. The Morel Mushroom is prized as a jewel because of its rarity and great taste. But even it, looks alien when compared to the average creature.

In any case, I enjoy the Fungi around me. As I see an ancient oak lay helplessly on the forest floor, it is refreshing to see nature use it for the good. The slimy salamanders burrow in the soil below it, the termites begin to sink their tiny teeth into its woody fiber, and my friend the fungi begins to proudly grow upon its decomposing bark.

As creatures of life, we look to death as the arch enemy. It is hated, ignored, masked over, and it is triumphed over. If you have enough money you can have enough surgeries to fool yourself and those around you into thinking you have infinite years ahead of you yet. What I see in nature is death being embraced. Rather than fleeing from the end of life, i have observed the wild around us running to it.

As the Lord of the Oak, fungus, termite, and salamander offers life in the midst of death to His faithful creature, so too He gives us a beautiful hope to rejoice in, even in the midst of things ceasing.

You, O Lord are our true joy.

You turn death into life, and sorrow into rejoicing.
Amen

Asclepias syriaca

I had in mind today that I would sit down during my hour in the wild, so I brought with me into the pasture a folding chair. I never did open that chair today, instead I awkwardly carried it in the crotch of my arm as I frantically meandered throughout the grasses. Sometimes my body is not as contemplative as my mind want its to be. Today I felt fidgety. I entered the wilderness in hopes to find something thought provoking and soul stimulating, in the same manner that I would enter the grocery store to pick up milk or bread when running out of them.

Despite my ill motives and selfish intentions, nature gave me exactly what I needed today. It was not anything that I found, or that I stumbled across, as I might find something that I need wandering through the aisles of the grocery store, but it was everything that the patient inhabitants shouted at me despite my selfishness, that gave me what I needed today.

The Golden Rod has now turned to an awful brownish hue. The bright yellow that had once brought with it a sort of playful spirit, is now gone, and a mattress of decomposing stems and leaves replace it. The bold white spread of the Queen Anne's Lace has now retreated to a bud of rotting material interspersed with the once Golden Rod. Yet even in the midst of all this death there is new life. The Purple Aster must have a higher tolerance for the cold nights, as it stands firmly among its dieing brothers and sisters as if to honor their life, perhaps giving an eulogy of sorts.

Other life in the prairie is dieing, or perhaps dead, yet it seems to be glowing with life in its own way. The Milk Weed, for instance has long since made food, from the sun this year. The Chlorophyll has been gone from it for many weeks now, yet with the departure of this life-giving liquid comes colors that not even an artist could mix up on her palette.

As the fruit trees begin to shed their leafs of death, there seems to be still some hope in the air. The seed of these trees are encased in appetizing fruit. The promise of their offspring is as sweet as the fruit that they it is presented in. As I walk by an apple tree I can not help myself, so I climb the base of the tree finding the perfect apple that has not been too eaten by insects, and i partake in the sacramental feast prepared.

Creator God, bitterness has disguised itself as sweet, and death has some how appeared as life.

May the taste of life you give to my soul, be as real as the cool meat of the apple is to the pallet of my mouth.

This week my normal routine has changed. I took a break from worshiping at my urban sanctuary, and went camping at another sacred place of mine. Growing up, Newago State Park has been a place of retreat for my family. I can remember many exciting camping trips at the rustic campsites around Hardy Dam pond. There is a part of me that wishes to return to the early years of my life, away from the independence and maturity I have now and towards the rugged canvas tent holding all five of us, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, while we listened to my father’s stories of Indian Joe and my seemingly ageless Dad’s adventures through colonial Michigan. Perhaps this nostalgia prompted me to schedule a time to this sacred with my wife.

As I stepped out of the car, I immediately was back in that timeless place of childhood. Out of all the senses, I believe smell to be the strongest. There is something that is so intimate about the ability to take in air, taste it, and then return it. Smelling air seems to engage a sort of memory that is beyond words or comprehension. The smell of campfire is one of those fragrances for me that spark a mysterious memory of my childhood.

After setting up camp, we made our way to the lake that is so very familiar to me. Being captivated by the smell still, I soon found myself grabbed by another sense. The sight of the sunset over the water had a sacramental quality about it. The Roman Catholic Church defines a Sacrament as ‘an outward sign of inward grace instituted by Christ for our sanctification’. With the aid of this icon of God’s love, I found myself in a place out of time and space, and I certainly saw God’s grace in my life. Bathing in the memories of this place, I found myself bathing in God’s grace with the one that I loved in life, my wife. Out of all the things in life that can show God’s love, my favorite is human love. Being unconditionally loved by another, while that person happens to be the object of your love, seems to reek of yet a greater love. What love, that the God of vastness and grandeur would accommodate Himself to us in such simplicity as Water, Bread, Word, and human love!

God did not stop amazing me on this weekend camping trip. As the late hour of night came I was awaken by yet another sign. It was not at a sunrise or even a sunset, but during the climax of a midnight moonrise. This is an unexplainable marvel of creation that is often missed by humans. Despite its lack of popularity from the human species, in the middle of the night, creation seems to still itself and enjoy. It is just as the stars are at their brightest that they seem to dim for the main event. Just as us living things on earth grow unsettled by the darkness, the cumulus curtains seem to tease creation as it unveils the fullness of the midnight mirror of the sun. As if to applaud for an encore the subtle waves atop the lake reflect the bright moon, making little sparkles across the dark surface.

O great Composer of Creation, never stop amazing me,
As I strive to notice you in my blindness, never cease showing your love to me!

I have returned to the familiar place only to find things noticeably different. Because of the recent rain, everything seems to be steeping in its own juices. The air reeks of a certain sweet organic stench that can only be compared to an exotic tea I’ve often smelled within the walls of a local coffee shop. It seems as though all my friends of fauna have given the very sweetness of themselves only to satisfy the taste buds of the soil in which they were birthed. The vibrant yellow and green that I discovered last week have somehow lost much of their glamour. Yet within the dull grass there are still some bright hues that my tiny winged neighbors are drawn to.
The sounds around me are different this week as I hear no cicadas in the distance, but am captivated by a faint, yet pulsating tone. It is the melody of an orchestra of strumming crickets, not arranged in a uniform pattern of seating, but dispersed randomly across the wild floor seeming to be just as acoustically organized as those in a symphony hall.
I find myself in the exact same place that I was sitting before. In fact, the grass is still bent by my trek last week. However, this familiar place makes me feel very distant, distant from my friend the bee, who is far away by now, and far from the berry which has long been seen. Yet, as my body stills and my soul quiets among the humdrum of the faded color, I notice a movement from within. It is not a frantic movement, but one that seems to be exhausted and weathered. It is my faithful friend the mantis. I begin to approach my creepy friend closer and closer as I wait for his permission. As he turns his head to me, I notice his scared body. He has been through a lot in the past week: torrential rains, perhaps a bird. My little friend full of wisdom has seen his share of danger. He does not speak to me today. No homily, no parables, he simply graces me with his presence once again. I do not know what to make of it, will I see him next week, or will he have returned to the dirt?

O Maker, you have made life, and you have allowed death.
You have stirred up color upon your pallet, and you have taken it away.

Even in the midst of a sprawling suburbia, you can find a place of rest and within the busy traffic of society one can stubble across a chapel of quiet. I have found such a place. It is just a short bike ride away, a piece of land that lies next to a Michigan highway. As I walk into the overgrown pasture the traffic noise begins to fade into a distant whisper, and replacing it is the loud chorus of cicadas typical this time of year. It is this time of year when the summer’s heat begins to run into the cool winter. Autumn in Michigan is my favorite time of year. Although it is fall when everything begins to die, the end of summer marks the time when all of nature seems to erupt with life. The birds seem to be thrilled as the trees provide a buffet of all sorts of fruit. The forest floor is covered with color, among the lush golden rod you can also make out hints of color from the purple thistle and elegant pearl from the Queen Anne’s lace. The air has a certain cool to it, but the sun is still radiating heat that could cause any forehead begin to sweat.

I have decided to make my seat within the thick of the golden rod. As I sit, the show begins. This is a show unlike any other as it is one that entertains every sense of the body and more. My eyes are first captured by the elegance, and playful spirit of the Monarch butterfly. It is as I begin to put the camera to my face that I realize what this gracious lady is doing. She is not calling attention to herself (though she certainly has the right to with the beauty which she possesses) but she seems to be ushering me into the beauty of the Creator. My eyes leave her and are soon captured by her brother mantis. The mantis, also known as the praying mantis, seems to be the preacher in this church that I have stumbled across today. Although he is a bug, one of those “creepy things” that are referred to in the Creation story, he is not buggy by any means, in fact, he seems to be clothed with ornate clerical garments that rival even those who dwell near St. Peter’s Basilica. His homily today is titled “A life of Prayer”. I sit back and take in the Word that is given to me today. While brother mantis does not utter a word, his sermon speaks to me in a special way.

My heart is soon grabbed by another. It is my friend, the Honey Bee that frantically flies by my head and desperately gathers pollen from the golden rod nearby. While brother mantis was fascinated with my presence turning his head to meet my eyes with his, my friend the Honey Bee seems to ignore me altogether. Although pollen weighs him down and is already attached to every appendage he has, this busy harvester takes more and more, with such urgency that he seems to know the exact hour winter will arrive. It is before I even have a chance to greet my friend that he is gone and on to another plant out of sight.

As my eyes fall to the ground with disappointment, I spot a gift. It is a delicate wild strawberry hidden under the thick foliage of gold. It is small enough that it should have been overlooked, it should have stayed on the plant and rotted, but for some reason I found it today. As I pick the berry off its plant that nurtured it for weeks, I am reminded of God’s grace. The gentle fruit explodes in my mouth and a sweet flavor fills my taste buds. Perhaps this berry’s entire identity has been around being enjoyed by me some day, but I think it had one greater all along, giving glory to God, and out of its grace it has allowed me to be a part of it.

While my head often drops with the sorrow of the world,
It is you O Lord who has given gifts that nourish me.
As I am overwhelmed with sadness, it is your fruit O God that explodes taste into my dull senses.

Whenever I see grape vines, I remember my childhood. It was behind my house that I used to spend hours climbing, swinging, and jumping, on grapevines. I remember having a large imagination as a child, as my ability to play was much greater than it is now. I used to get lost in my imagination, as hours would fly by while i was among the grapevines.

For some reason, among adults we frown upon play and imagination. Certain words are given to adults who get lost in their imagination, and play without restraint. I don't know why we have come to this as "mature people". After all it is through our imagination and play that we can have faith, and it is through play that God desires his people to declare his glory.

"Sing to him a new song; play skillfully, and shout for joy."-Psalm 33:3

Christ instructs us to reveive salvation, not as well thought-out and rational adults, but as that of children geting caught up in the vines.

"I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it."-Mark 10:15

Push me back into the vines O Lord,

and expand my imagination once again.

Help me leave the rationale of my mind O God of play,

and let me jump into the playfullness of faith. Amen.