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.