Morning Prayers
There was a powerful thunder and lightning storm last night just before midnight in the Vancouver area. After a storm like that it is common to have conversations with friends and co-workers about what the storm was like for them, about how they watched it from where they were.
There is a gift in feeling small, particularly when you know that you are safe. We could see the flashes of lightning and hear the thunder crashing in the mountains near our house, but it was not ever too near. It was just close enough to make us express awe and wonder, to feel something close to fear, but unlike fear in that we knew we were okay.
The storm did not last long and by the time it was light in the morning, the sky was unsettled still, but more clear than ominous. I looked through the blinds and noticing the clearing determined that I could get an early morning bike ride in after the storm. I did get a ride in, but I did not avoid the remnants of the storm. I got caught in hard rain and hail even as I rode under what appeared to be sunny skies. By the time I reached the forest, the sun had given up. It was all so very beautiful.
Riding on the same road through the trees a couple of weeks ago I saw something that has been on my mind repeatedly since. At one point there is a steep drop off to the side of the road. There is a metal barrier there to let drivers know. If you are cycling the route you get a better view of the drop off. The occasion of my memory, I was riding along that part of the road feeling safe, but aware of the danger just a couple of feet to my right. Quite suddenly, as happens often, a squirrel darted beside me, between me and the steep drop. The squirrel was running full speed under the barrier and really had only one place to go, at least in my estimation. Only a quick left was possible for him which meant that I would be cut off by the small, but now dangerous, animal. I determined to either stop quickly or just hope that I wouldn’t soon be running over a squirrel. Veering right would bring me over the steep drop. Veering left would mean potentially putting myself into traffic. Then I saw the squirrel do this most extraordinary thing. He launched himself into the air off of the edge of the road and above the huge drop. It was all very quick, but for a split second I had no idea what the outcome was going to be. To me the launch appeared to be into a void, as if the squirrel had made a terrible choice. What he had calculated and I had not, was that there was branch of a tree across the void. He flew threw the air (not a flying squirrel, just a regular squirrel deciding to fly for a brief moment), and landed on the branch and, without slowing down, ran up the tree. That was the last I ever saw of him, but I am assuming he has been doing well since.
I have been praying for people about things re-opening after this pandemic. So many people are cautious, nervous, afraid of what they might feel, and how they will cope. It is like so many of us are running on that edge, unsure if we will get through what lies ahead. The cover of this week’s New Yorker is striking. It is particular in a way to the landscape of NYC, but it conveys a feeling shared by many people around the world.
New Yorker cover art “Venturing Out” by Gürbüz Doğan Ekşioğlu
I hope it’s okay with you that I am praying for you. I will think of the squirrel as I pray.
The storms can remind us of how small we are, but that can be a gift. The squirrel made it without falling. We likely will as well.
Excuse the gendered language, Karl Barth was writing quite some time ago, but here is what came to my mind as I saw the storm and remembered the squirrel:
“The person who loves God is no heaven-storming idealist. His interest is in the cause of God on earth; His cause which is not a cause, but His work, His kingdom. He himself, the living God, the living Jesus. He hears Him speak through every other noise. He sees Him at work through all the clouds and mists.”