A Familiar Voice

"You don't want to miss the sunset tonight. I wanted to go drive by the lake on my way home," said my mother-in-law late this afternoon. I had been using my father-in-law's wood shop today and finished up at the same time she got home. I love making things, creating, building things. Especially things so natural and raw as wood. Very slowly and from a little seed grew a giant oak. It grew so heavy and old that it fell in a storm. Since it was on his property, Uncle Wes milled it and gave most of it to my father-in-law. Today we planed the faces and jointed the edges and made the first cuts. It's such beautiful wood. The grain is tight and strong. But it gives itself to my shaping and joining.

Needless to say, I peeked out the window to see a corner of sky, lit up pink by the setting sun. I said goodbye, started my car, and chased toward the sun, eager to catch a full view and knowing I had
only moments before it was beyond the horizon. I was running on empty so I stopped to fill my tank. By the time I was back on the road, the sun had gone. The dry trees like a grey broom swept the dusty rose pink sky.

On the drive out from San Diego, I mourned the loss of the pacific ocean, specifically the waves. I remember in the car telling Rachel I felt that I had lost a friend. The waves were faithful in their rhythm, coming in and out with the tide. I miss playing in them, being tossed in their arms and having my hair combed back. I miss paddling and the rush as the board planed, I stood up, and dropped in. The ocean is alive and I interacted with it in its mystery and beauty.

Here, there is no ocean. Though there is a lake which is darkening with the sky. The colder wind blows through drying grass and leaves. Everything is changing before my eyes. The land is preparing to receive snow. And the snow will hide it all for a while. Then the snow melts and plants begin to blossom. Things begin to grow. Flowers form, then fruit. The fruit falls and the seeds are taken into the cold soil. It's a cycle, a rhythm. I see these things beginning to happen and something sounds familiar. I recognize the voice and I smile. It is the voice of an old friend I thought I had lost. But He's just telling a bigger story this time. Not of the ocean's tides, but of the seasons' tides; not only of joy and grace, but also of forgiveness and new life. Everything is caught up pressing slowly onward in the story together, moved by the voice that created it all and calls it all beautiful. And He's drawing me to come and join in. So here I come. I'm coming out to play, once again, with an old friend.