Night watches

My soul shall be satisfied … when … I meditate on thee in the night watches. –Ps. 63:5-6

I stumbled through the dark pasture at 5:00 AM with only a single, green, night-vision LED showing the way. The quiet of the night was unbroken by the usual dog alarm. I was straining to hear the lumbering shifting of cows who were out there somewhere in the darkness. Suddenly they were there with at least 8 pairs of glowing eyes all trained on me the intruder into their grassy haven. Fumbling in the dark, I found my spot, trying not to crunch too loudly on those dried and fallen leaves I ordinarily love to rustle. Dried leaves, a crisp fall night, smells of autumn, and the silence of the dead of night all combined to provide a habitation that welcomed me into its dark bosom. The sky was ink black except for every star in the universe peeking through, wanting to be noticed. There, straight above me and standing proud on its handle, was the Big Dipper. I sat in admiration of how it guided southern, run-away slaves who followed their friend, “the drinkin’ gourd,” to safe haven in the north. It is an indelible sign post in the sky that even the most uneducated or simple can follow. Not long after settling in with branches and leaves around me in my freshly made nest, a thin ribbon of light started to dissolve the darkened sky; the hope of a new day.

As the light slowly grew to herald the coming sun, it was almost as if it came as an enemy or intruder to a hundred crows; birds of the day but dark as night. They took to the sky in steadily increasing numbers raising a cacophony of caws and cawing that had a raucous and almost angry sound. Perhaps it was their only way of showing their applause for the dawn raising its curtain after an intermission that had grown interminable. They were sure to spread the word winging their way either singly or in groups, never content to just fly through the air in quiet flight like any respectable bird.

The cows in the pasture were now clearly visible, some slowly rousing themselves, but most content to lie in their beds like any of us when faced with a new day. The grass was gently frosted, proudly showing a hardy claim to life in spite of winter’s warning shots. The burgeoning light occasionally threw sparks of light off a crystalled blade or leaf. The usual whispers of night sounds were suddenly trumped by a chattering squeal not too far off in the distance. It was too irregular for a bird; too high pitched for a dog or coyote. It played upon my imagination as it kept repeating itself in sharp alarm. It then grew silent and was no more. Suddenly my senses were raised to the awareness of living in a world where death stalks us all. Nature is cruel as well as beautiful, and I suspect I was listening to the death throes of some rabbit or small animal caught in the claws of an owl or other predator. And here I was, the ultimate predator, lying in deadly wait for fresh venison for my freezer.

The sun slowly pushed its way over the hill as our little spot joyfully received its warming rays sent out several minutes before from that gigantic nuclear furnace in the sky, some 92 million miles away. My senses were alert for my prey to make its appearance knowing full well how softly and unobtrusively they can insinuate themselves into a staid landscape. While the waiting continued, half-hour after half-hour, I occupied myself with some prayers for church, family, and school. Prayer and quiet, softly combined to fix an iron cord between the human and the divine, arching its way from woods to sky to eternity and beyond, a mystery far greater than all.

Then suddenly, my eye caught movement, and there in front of me was the sight I had longed to see. He had, of course, snuck up on me as if to say, “You need to be watching better than that.” I followed him carefully with excitement welling up within me. But then, as he cleared the brush, I could clearly see his button nubs where antlers will soon grow. “Next year, little fellah, next year.” But still it was a glorious sight to see this beautiful creature filling my sight with cross hairs laid across his heart. Admiration and yet the need to kill and eat; the beauty and the beast within us all.

As the morning spent itself without further success to the hunt, thoughts of success and failure chased each other across my mind. No trophy to take home and yet the time spent sitting, listening, watching, observing, had sharpened my senses to the sticking point. How I would love to drag my students out and sit them in the woods to watch the coming day and see how many wonders they could find, how many thoughts they could capture, and how wonderful a psalm they could write to describe it all. They might also find that time, spent in deliberate slow motion, is not quite so scary after all.