A few weeks ago, my nephew Josh took part in a 20-mile Wisconsin trail run, most of it in the dark, a lot of it alone, lit only by a headlamp. Dangerous. Amazing. He called it a deeply spiritual experience... His adventure got my mind going, pondering the countless wild untamed mysteries of God's Spirit:
native scouts and hunters
stood by these waters and soaked You in
felt Your soul in the brisk wind
calling forth echoes in the dawn
echoes in the sunset
running the trails
marked off by crackling campfires
the cry of wolves
and unknown animal eyes reflecting
Spirit.
deep calling to Deep, and Deep echoing back
in a voice we can barely make out
and have not yet unraveled.
such a wild wind, the Pneuma.
You soar across the prairie
and the atmosphere swirls the dry dust in reply.
You speak a saving grace
and the skies turn loose sheets of wild water
releasing life, reviving the land.
so little we know.
so little we understand.
in our better moments we make an honest try of it.
You walk through the prairie and it shivers
and we the poets and painters scramble
to capture what we can
before we miss it.
You quicken the artist's mind and steady her hand,
free flow shape sharp brush angle and balance color
proportion, precision -
all this is only the whisper of a hint.
meanwhile you rustle the forests
unsettle the wetlands
You glide dark through deep oceans
stirring seismic dances in caves and underground canyons
the globe spins and sings
altering its orbit at the sound of Your song.
furious joy, love that breaks open rock
feeds lakes
and plants seeds in the forest
seeds in the minds of poets and engineers
architects and inventors.
the mighty gale blows and recedes.
in its wake the soft breeze heals,
a salve, a balm, a redemption,
a second chance singing through the branches of late summer.
so little we know.
we go
about our hummings and doings and goings and comings
and barely take notice of the little cataclysms -
the shift in the air pressure
the upper storms, the night dreams
the cry of car horns and the weeping of sirens
the percussion of tires on small buckles of pavement
the Great Whisper
the Song, the sun glow
the Dance, and the Eye upon us,
the rhythm of the sails
the patter of the early rain
the pattern of the night campfires
as seen from the high cliffs
smoke rising into thin air
still
be alert
eyes and ears open
attentive
like the dawn and dusk ritual
of ancient tribal scouts by the lake watching
some century ago
right here
attending, silent
to the rustle of the Great Soul
the Word almost imperceptible - hear it?
I AM
--
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to attain. -Psalm 139:6 (also...see Job chapters 32-40)
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