Hearing God's voice through Nature's song

Priest Lake is kicking up an ocean surf. When the sun hits the water it transforms into a sea of beautiful blues and greens — edged by waves breaking brilliant white against the shore. The pounding water and the wind swaying the trees are loud. They speak God's voice, “Power belongs to Me.” Nature conversation is never dull.

I pay attention to the call of a robin-sized bird that appears at the end of May — and stays all summer. But the thrush only continues his love song until right about now. He's full throttle in the evening. There is one visiting our camp who sings so richly even my husband — who doesn't usually catch birdsong — can listen.

The peaceful trilling is best described in the words of an old hymn, “There is a place of quiet rest, Near to the heart of God.” The woods go so quiet when he mutes till next season. I know there are many who won't note any difference. The natural world takes layered listening. And to do that, the interest has to be there.

The same with people — each voice is there to hear if I will. Terry and I had an unusual encounter with a single night camping neighbor who stopped by and didn't leave — at least not right away. He pulled all kinds of information off the shelf — life details that didn't always seem to add up.

On the beach that evening he walked by where I sat in my chair. I was briefly taking a few screenshots on my phone. He — Ken — didn't think I should be looking down when I could be looking out — at all the beauty of the lake and mountains. He didn't seem to remember he'd been at our camp — and began repeating many of the same things he'd just told us.

When he heard — after asking — that I do some inspirational writing, he brought up that he had forgiven his father ten years ago when he was twenty-seven, for all the things he had put him through. He launched into more experiences — some very odd — even bizarre. When I finally excused myself he seemed disappointed.

The next morning — though I loved my early mornings with the lake — I stayed off the beach. I didn't want to run into Ken — or more likely, him run into me. But as the day progressed, so did my thoughts. I told myself, “Okay, you told Ken you are a Christian. So would Jesus avoid this man. No, absolutely not.”

I saw through the trees Ken was in his camp — he planned to scuba dive with some contraption he had — said he was “self taught” — trying it out, wasn't going deep. I thought about how he sought out others — like the “magnet fishing” he does. Throwing that powerful magnet on a line out into the water — seeing what it will attract. He seemed to do that with his rambling — saying anything and everything in the hopes of attracting human connection.

I walked over to his camp — urged him kindly to be careful with that scuba diving — said it was good he could forgive his dad — told him what it means to me to know Jesus in my life — asked that God would bless him and guide him. He listened intently the whole time, and I could tell that it brought him “near to the heart of God.”

Will he remember? I don't know. But he knew in that moment. He was willing to hear my voice because I had heard his.