Stillness
My wife Michelle and I just spent several much-needed
days away in Door County. Despite the reality
that Door County is a haven for tourists, and there were plenty of those with the
exceptionally fine late September weather, this visit was unusual in its
stillness. The stillness was both
internal and tangible.
The internal stillness came from my quarterly
spiritual direction meeting with Mother Mary Catherine of the Missionaries of
the Word – a relatively new and thriving order of religious women who serve
teens and young adults at Catholic Youth Expeditions in Baileys Harbor. Mother was a little delayed, so I went to the
chapel to pray a rosary while I waited.
There is something internally calming about being alone in a church,
just Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament and you.
Life, including my faith life, had been challenging,
rewarding and a bit hectic recently.
Mother came and got me from the chapel and we took the outdoor path
around to her office. Mother stopped,
her head tilted a bit to one side, and she said, “It’s unusually calm today.” It was true.
Autumn is notable for its wind as captured by Percy Shelley in his Ode
to the West Wind: “O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being”.
That evening we returned to the Inn we were staying at
after taking in a play. Our second-floor
room had a little balcony and we stepped back out into the night air. “It’s so still and quiet,” Michelle remarked. No breeze ruffed the leaves – they hung as if
frozen. The stars were silent too; if
they do sing as they move through space, the song is lost along the way as only
the dance can be sensed in their glittering.
This morning, if even possible, was even more still. We sipped our coffee as we looked out over waveless
open water of Green Bay. A fog bank rolled toward us. The few sail boats that were already out on the
water were swallowed by the fog and we lost sight of them. The fog stalked the near shore with stealth
and then, not even taking time to shake off, the mist moved into the town,
obscuring vision down to maybe a quarter mile.
It was like being in a cloud.
Finishing breakfast, we drove over to the Lake
Michigan side of the Peninsula and hiked out to Toft’s Point. The wind usually catches this place. The hiking trail cuts through a thick cedar
forest. On most days we have hiked here,
you can hear the wind rushing through the tops of the trees while at ground
level it is still. But today the
treetops had nothing to say.
As we reached the end of the point, and we could
glimpse some blue of the water peaking through the tree trunks, there was a
sudden rush, like a huge wave crashing the shore. We stopped and listened. We heard it again. And then a third time, but there was no rhythm
to it like the surf would have. And then
we came to a little break in the trees and we saw a raft of bluebills, maybe 500
strong. They seemed to be feeding casually
when all of a sudden all of them began to almost take wing. It was their wing tips churning the water briefly
that was causing the rushing sound.
Whatever caused them to seemingly want to take flight as if in fear, quickly subsided, and they all simultaneously
settled back down and return to feeding.
At the end of Toft’s Point there are huge limestone
outcroppings where the big lake waves usually shatter into spray. But this day there were no crashing
waves. In fact, there was only the
slightest of ripples that danced with the sunlight and set the whole bay a-sparkle.
Even as the earth spins constantly, always in motion,
there are moments of rest upon the face of the earth that serve to settle us, and
quiet our hearts. It is only the Lord
who rests not. His Word is eternal. In fact, if God was still, all would cease to
be.
“God, do not be silent; God, do not be
deaf or remain unmoved!” Psalm 83:2
His Peace <><
Deacon Dan
Photo by Jase Harris on Unsplash
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