Forgotten places

I have just returned from a few days down the South coast of Kwa-Zulu Natal. I enjoy it there, the seas, beaches, lagoons and rivers are places I often frequented in my youth. There is something about land and water when they meet, that line of beauty that roars with the thunderous rhythm of the waves. The rivers open to the white saline tides that push themselves inland. The lagoon, tepid warm where Legavaans (monitor lizard) wink at you as they warm their cold blooded bodies on hot baking stones. To drift up river is to journey to another land, an explorer of old discovering new and exotic life forms. How bizarre to feel an innate fear grip you when floating in uncharted brown muddied waters beneath the canopies of well branched trees. To watch the mullet skip on top of the water afraid of what lurks below. The Cicada’s (Christmas beetle in the R.S.A) rich, shrill music beating the thick humid air. Something sounds in the bushes, I cannot see. These places of natural wonder, our earth, our sea.

Caught fishing

Traveled to a little dam called “Broomy” near Rosetta yesterday. It was a gusty day and the prospects of catching a slippery predator were slight. My little PFD short for “Personal floating device,” bobbed up and down in the windy South Westerly. I paddled like a duck with flippers into a quieter corner of the dam where the face of an Otter kept me company as he foraged for his recommended daily allowance. The reeds lanced through the water all around me like soldiers of the lake. The Spur-wing goose took flight, indignant of the intrusion in its sacred precinct. Up on the farm land the full moon stood buoyant between two irrigation water jets as if balanced like a beach ball. The Willows dipped thirsty into the water with their long green straws. The fly-line doing its figure of eight casting neatly between the banks in hope of a tug. These are my off days, my Sabbath, my time, my intimate moments of reverence, my Cathedral. Creation a sacrament around me imbibed with each breath, each sighting, each bird call. It doesn’t have to sing words from a hymnal or preach to convince. The silent whispering of wind, the whistle of a duck, and the splash of the Otter are the unpracticed choir that moves the soul.

Awestruck

Struck by the Higher’s Hand wielding power that humbles stubborn nations, convicting hearts that build guilt free temples. Struck in awe by the Hand that pulls the strings of the Universe into vivacious shapes of shimmering blues and sanguine greens. Struck by the Hands that cradle infant lambs and mother’s concerns, the gentlest of whispers the softest of songs. Awestricken am I with this powerful Creator, this masterful friend.
(based on Isaiah 40:1-14)

Never lost

Nature can hold a lesson or two for us. Sitting quietly in prayerful reflection I caught sight of two flying geese in the thick wet fog of the morning. I drove in that fog last night. Not even my car lights could penetrate the mass of water that blankets the hill. The geese flew with such confidence and speed through this fog, their long necks stretched to full capacity and their gliding flight as straight as a line. An astonishing feat considering the visibility. How I wish I could fly with such confidence in the foggy parts of my life. When our weather is foggy we tend to fear the worst and land up going nowhere. The faithful learn to stretch their necks out and beat the air with a confidence that bleeps on another radar system. A confidence that is bred from within and not without. The faith that rests the fear of being lost in the hands of its creator. The faith that knows that wherever it is, it cannot be outside of where God intended it to be. If the heart is with God there are a thousand places to go and no place called lost. We are so funny we are, there seems only to be a right and wrong way. In God, all ways are Gods.