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.