I began my morning thinking of Moses and the Israelites wandering the desert for forty years.
I had been praying my regular morning prayers when I suddenly found myself asking God for something new.
"God," I said, "I know that we can't always see the destination, we can't see where it is You intend us to go, but can we at least know that we're on the path--a path--any path?"
Which led me to thinking of the Israelites and the importance of paths and the difference between wandering the desert and being lost ... which all led me to the quote from J.R.R. Tolkien, "Not all those who wander are lost."
Forty years is a long time to be lost in what was not a very big desert. Forty years is a long time to realize you're walking in circles. I give myself about a mile of driving down an unfamiliar road before I stop and turn around.
The Israelites weren't lost, but they were wandering and even though they spent those forty years complaining and doing some really dumb things, I am impressed by the faith they showed. They didn't know where they were going, not really, not directly. They might have had some knowledge abstractly, but I get the feeling that whenever Moses spoke, they just nodded their heads even though they had no clue what he was talking about.
And yet they followed.
I think about paths a lot at the Wetlands. Weeks ago, I was driving around the Wetlands when I noticed a group of people on the side of the road, all taking a picture of something in the grass. I pay attention to groups at the Wetlands, hoping for something amazing to take a picture of.
It turned out they were taking a picture of a turtle, a common Florida box turtle, about as exciting as a blade of grass.
But who am I to judge?
At the Wetlands we're all wanderers, somehow all on the same path, and yet every one of us with different goals and destinations.
This morning, as I drove to the Wetlands, I saw black smoke billowing into the sky. I have no concept of how far away things are, so I initially assumed it was a house fire, but the closer I got, the more I could see the flames and I realized that no the fire was at the ranch across the road from the Wetlands.
I'm assuming it was a planned fire as there were no firetrucks and the smoke could be seen for miles. Also there was a man in a forklift driving right in front of it and he seemed unconcerned, even as I could feel the heat from a hundred feet away through my open window.
I took picture after picture of the fire. It was, apparently, a mountain of wooden pallets. I don't think I had ever been so close to a fire before. It was both awful and terrible. The air around it looked sick and wounded.
And yet, car after car passed me, headed to the Wetlands. Not one car pulled over like I did. Not one person seemed to care what was happening.
This was my burning bush and mine alone.
As I made my way into the Wetlands, I noticed that even the birds seemed agitated, or perhaps I was projecting. Maybe they were just feeding and I had caught them in a frenzy, but there were suddenly ospreys everywhere and shorebirds and seagulls and every one of them soaring and hovering and diving suddenly and splashing into the water.
There were dozens of people on the road taking pictures of the birds, while the fire burned behind them.
I'd like to say it was the strangest thing I saw today.
But on my way back out of the Wetlands, I passed a man walking. I almost stopped. I almost asked if I could take his picture, but he had earbuds in his ears and seemed to be elsewhere.
He had a bird on his shoulder.
A real bird, not a Wetlands bird, but some sort of exotic, who clearly (based on the amount of bird poop on the man's shoulder) was used to calling this man home. The bird sang, the bird talked. It called out and I wondered, eyes wide, if he looked at the Wetlands and longed for that freedom.
The fire seemed less as I pulled out of the Wetlands and I was thankful for that. The air has been so cold and dry and windy the last few days, a single stray spark might be catastrophic.
And I thank God with this prayer: "Thank you for the incredible things You showed me today, the paths, the fire, the birds, the people. I have never felt so small and so wonderful for being that small. I don't know where the path that I am on is headed, but so far, I am enjoying the journey."
I had been praying my regular morning prayers when I suddenly found myself asking God for something new.
"God," I said, "I know that we can't always see the destination, we can't see where it is You intend us to go, but can we at least know that we're on the path--a path--any path?"
Which led me to thinking of the Israelites and the importance of paths and the difference between wandering the desert and being lost ... which all led me to the quote from J.R.R. Tolkien, "Not all those who wander are lost."
Forty years is a long time to be lost in what was not a very big desert. Forty years is a long time to realize you're walking in circles. I give myself about a mile of driving down an unfamiliar road before I stop and turn around.
The Israelites weren't lost, but they were wandering and even though they spent those forty years complaining and doing some really dumb things, I am impressed by the faith they showed. They didn't know where they were going, not really, not directly. They might have had some knowledge abstractly, but I get the feeling that whenever Moses spoke, they just nodded their heads even though they had no clue what he was talking about.
And yet they followed.
I think about paths a lot at the Wetlands. Weeks ago, I was driving around the Wetlands when I noticed a group of people on the side of the road, all taking a picture of something in the grass. I pay attention to groups at the Wetlands, hoping for something amazing to take a picture of.
It turned out they were taking a picture of a turtle, a common Florida box turtle, about as exciting as a blade of grass.
But who am I to judge?
At the Wetlands we're all wanderers, somehow all on the same path, and yet every one of us with different goals and destinations.
This morning, as I drove to the Wetlands, I saw black smoke billowing into the sky. I have no concept of how far away things are, so I initially assumed it was a house fire, but the closer I got, the more I could see the flames and I realized that no the fire was at the ranch across the road from the Wetlands.
I'm assuming it was a planned fire as there were no firetrucks and the smoke could be seen for miles. Also there was a man in a forklift driving right in front of it and he seemed unconcerned, even as I could feel the heat from a hundred feet away through my open window.
I took picture after picture of the fire. It was, apparently, a mountain of wooden pallets. I don't think I had ever been so close to a fire before. It was both awful and terrible. The air around it looked sick and wounded.
And yet, car after car passed me, headed to the Wetlands. Not one car pulled over like I did. Not one person seemed to care what was happening.
This was my burning bush and mine alone.
As I made my way into the Wetlands, I noticed that even the birds seemed agitated, or perhaps I was projecting. Maybe they were just feeding and I had caught them in a frenzy, but there were suddenly ospreys everywhere and shorebirds and seagulls and every one of them soaring and hovering and diving suddenly and splashing into the water.
There were dozens of people on the road taking pictures of the birds, while the fire burned behind them.
I'd like to say it was the strangest thing I saw today.
But on my way back out of the Wetlands, I passed a man walking. I almost stopped. I almost asked if I could take his picture, but he had earbuds in his ears and seemed to be elsewhere.
He had a bird on his shoulder.
A real bird, not a Wetlands bird, but some sort of exotic, who clearly (based on the amount of bird poop on the man's shoulder) was used to calling this man home. The bird sang, the bird talked. It called out and I wondered, eyes wide, if he looked at the Wetlands and longed for that freedom.
The fire seemed less as I pulled out of the Wetlands and I was thankful for that. The air has been so cold and dry and windy the last few days, a single stray spark might be catastrophic.
And I thank God with this prayer: "Thank you for the incredible things You showed me today, the paths, the fire, the birds, the people. I have never felt so small and so wonderful for being that small. I don't know where the path that I am on is headed, but so far, I am enjoying the journey."
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