Religiously

A few weeks ago, I began driving to the Viera Wetlands every morning just after sunrise to take pictures.  I went religiously, always at the same time, because I knew that when I went, I would be treated to a revelation.  

When the sun rose, it cast the world in a golden light and every morning around 7 am, deer gathered in the open field on the other side of the parking lot, a whole family, four does and one fawn, spotted, and filled with joy as it tore through the grass, chasing dragonflies.

That same golden light also fell across an island, one of the last islands at the Wetlands thanks to this year’s drought.  The island was filled with nesting birds, with ibises and Snowy Egrets, with Cattle Egrets and anhingas.  They were most active at dawn, the mothers standing, stretching, and revealing to me over days and weeks, eggs first, and then, finally, just the other day, actual babies—ugly, scraggly, grey-feathered, and somehow completely and utterly delightful babies.

Every day—same time.  Just me and God—maybe a dog-walker and a few stray cars—out in the Wetlands with the deer and birds.  I breathed in the silence and was reminded of 1 Kings 19:11-12 that God was not in the wind, or in the earthquake or in the fire, but only in that still, small voice. And all alone in the Wetlands, I felt I had the best chance for hearing that voice.

But then, the other day, the first day of summer break actually, I pulled into the parking lot and found it full … of teenagers.

My first thought was: “It’s the first day of break, sleep in!  Why aren’t you sleeping in?”  

I sat for a moment in the car, crushed to have to say goodbye to my morning moments of solitude.

As far as I could tell, the group of teenagers who had invaded the Wetlands belonged to their school’s cross country team, and, in their defense, they were absolutely polite, calling out “Good morning,” to me when they ran past and thankfully never calling me “ma’am.”

They weren’t loud.  They weren’t obnoxious and still I hoped, selfishly, that their morning run at the Wetlands was a onetime thing.

But the next morning, I pulled into the parking lot and found it full once again.

And the next morning … and the next morning ….

Apparently, this particular high school cross country team trained … religiously.

What does that mean—to do something, “religiously?”

For example, it seems like my step-mother never misses a day of Zumba when she is in town.  She goes, religiously, even when family is visiting, even when she doesn’t feel well.

We’re used to hearing people say that word … “religiously.”  But you never hear someone say, “I go to work, religiously.”  Right?  And, perhaps ironically, you never hear someone say, “I go to church every Sunday, religiously.”

To do something religiously implies a choice.  Going to work each day is expected.  Going to Zumba, training for the cross country team, getting up early to watch the sunrise over a field of deer—these are choices.  To do them religiously means we’ve made a choice—we’ve made a value choice.  These things are worthy of our attention. 

But more than just attention—these things are worthy of our devotion.  The cross country team is devoting time to their bodies.  When I am out taking pictures of nature, I am devoting time to my spirit.

What in your life, right now, do you do religiously?

Because once you identify that, you are taking a huge step in answering the question we have all asked at some point in our lives:  What is my purpose in life?  

And variations of that question … What is my calling?  What gets me out of bed in the morning?  What is it that God wants me to accomplish today?

Five and a half years ago, I thought my purpose was to become a priest in the Episcopal Church.  I went through the yearlong discernment process.  I was accepted as a Postulant for Holy Orders.  I started seminary and then, one January, I found myself in the emergency room, sobbing in pain, gripping my grandmother’s hand as one of these mysterious fevers that had been plaguing me, off and on, raged inside of me.

Though I had been fighting health problems for years, I knew then in the hospital that my days of attending seminary were coming to an end and with it my hopes of serving God as a priest.  

“Why won’t He let me serve Him?” I asked my grandmother that night.  “All I want to do is serve Him.”

And here’s the truly amazing thing:  God answered my prayer that night.  I am not a priest, but I have spent the last five years serving Him in a way I could not have envisioned that night.

My health left me disabled, unable to work, but God was able to use me.

It began with me coming here to Hope, daily, religiously, to spend time with God, to take pictures and to write about what I had seen.  Those pictures and those words turned into books—picture books, devotionals and poetry, some devoted to Hope, some to the Wetlands and all to nature and all to God.

So ask yourself, what do you do religiously?  Where is the spirit leading you?  Because the spirit moves us in ways we can’t imagine, in ways that sometimes go unseen and therefore are often ignored.

The spirit speaks to us in that still, small voice that sometimes comes to us as we watch the sunrise, or sometimes comes to us as our feet pound the sidewalk on a morning run, or sometimes comes to us as we kneel beside our beds at night and pray like so many of us were taught as children, when prayer was something we did … religiously.