The Forest Sings for Joy

At the stoplight down the road, there's a single sprout of Queen Anne's lace growing between the cracks that separate the road from the median. There it grows, without care for the cars that pass or the trucks that idle beside it. There it grows, alone. It grows in a crack, wild as it is,  and will continue to bloom beneath summer's warming sun as ants unaware of exhaust clouds play atop their fabricy heads. I see it as I turned the corner. And delight in its beauty, the placement, the softness. I know I will gather my own lacy, buttoned bouquet on my return trip home, because I always carry my scissors for moments just like this.

This is creation rejoicing in the Lord in spite of having roots lodged in shallow cracks in the middle of hot pavement.

At the aquarium I see the sea nettle with its mysterious arms float aimlessly through the darkness.  It performs the same routine during the summer in the deep darkness of the ocean, or so I am told on the placard beneath.  In a cloud of companions, it dances through the blue without an audience. But the recital goes on anyway.  The singing of whales, or rather the muffles of wowed children, the theme for the nettle's movements of pas de basque and petit jeté while its tentacles lift in port de bras. No applause to be given. But still it twirls on without care of tomorrow.

This is the sea roaring for the glory of the Lord, this and all that fills it in a harmonious praise to the Maker in spite of their imposed and limited boundaries.

There is a fallen tree beyond the boundary of our yard and the neighbor's garden, just beyond the iron gate. Grasses are growing tall now, hiding the decaying mass. The termite army is on active duty transforming the oak into dust one tiny bite at a time. And if no one ventures past the rows of black-eyed Susans and sprouting monkey grass, no one can gaze at the shelf fungi and lichen that sit atop the engulfed termitarium. But it will grow and they will eat. Because that is what fungi, lichen, and termites are made to do, even if the gate remains closed.

This, with all that is in it, is the field exulting in the great name of the Lord in spite of being broken down and marched over, the transformation of life from death.

Back in the vast, green wood, the pileated woodpecker finds a hollowed pine. He drills not for black beetles and larvae, not this time. His hammering intends to echo through hollers to the delight of a mate. In the forest, pecks reverberate the ballroom thicket as the passerines fill it with lullabies. But no mind to the concertgoers who may hike through, the ballad plays on.

This is the forest singing for joy, the birds among branches in spite of the laborious toil for a companion or caterpillar.

In the morning I sit on the front porch, my Bible in my lap and coffee resting on the side table with a brown ring already forming from escaped droplets, not unlike the mornings that have come before.  And while all is calm this early in the morning, I'm still tempted to dwell on the chaos of which I have no control.  My thoughts bounce. I have work to do.  A sip of coffee reminds me where I am, the meeting I set with the Lord. But just before I look down, an eastern bluebird visits my neighbor's fence. And I know this is not the first time a common fledgling perches upon the adjacent barrier, without sound.  But there the quiet songbird sits, my eyes meeting her rusty breast under her cobalt grey jacket. And then she takes flight after fluffing her coat. Maybe tomorrow we will meet again. I smile. This bird hasn't a care, why should it? And why should I?

This moment here, a moment to ascribe to the Lord glory and strength, the glory due His name in spite of my disruptive weakness and unsightly disorder.

For now I sit, listening to the the loudest robin perched on a widow-maker in the loblolly while the morning dew rises to greet to my face.  The humidity in Virginia, I'm still learning to thank God for the arrival of the heavy, summer air. But even the humidity admits that the Lord reigns, and I have only moments to meet with the Lord before the children themselves rise to greet my face. Another sip. My eyes turn to the Book in my lap and I hear tired laughs from behind the window beside me.

And this, especially this, yes, this is the opportunity I get to tell of His salvation from day to day, to declare Christ's glory, and to point to His marvelous work among the smallest of people in my home.

Find and read Psalm 96 here