"The heavens are telling the glory of God; and the firmament proclaims his handiwork. There is no speech, nor are there words; their voice is not heard; yet their voice goes out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world. "
     Psalm 19:1, 2-4

One summer in the late fifties, I spent a week at a church camp situated on a wooded bluff overlooking Lake Erie in Ontario, Canada. At the close of each day, we gathered for evening vespers. Framing the entrance to the trail leading to the outdoor chapel was an arch fashioned of broken branches, welcoming us to the woods. The leaf-strewn pathway twisted and turned for some distance through the forest and led to a clearing where the service was held. We sat on logs arranged in a semicircle around a roughhewn altar, and watched the splendid roses and golds melt away and the sky gradually darken into a heavenly shade of indigo. I do not recall the words that were spoken, but I remember the warmth and radiance that seemed to permeate the atmosphere. Swathed in the tender beauty of the light and cradled in the sheltering arms of the towering white pines, I felt caressed by the God I loved. At the end of the service, we lit candles in silence, and walked together back through the forest. By now, the path was heavily shaded, but for streams of moonlight breaking through the trees. As we retraced our steps, we always sang these verses from the hymn "Fairest Lord Jesus:"

Fair are the meadows, fairer still the woodlands,
Robed in the blooming garb of spring:
Jesus is fairer, Jesus is purer,
He makes the woeful heart to sing.
 
Fair is the sunshine, fairer still the moonlight,
And all the twinkling starry host:
Jesus shines brighter, Jesus shines purer
Than all the angels heaven can boast.

I was eleven years old, and to me the moonlit path and the hillside sanctuary felt like holy ground. It seemed as if the music melded into the light, bathing all in exquisite beauty, and transporting me to that noumenal realm hidden deep within the natural world, not in the least understood, but experienced on some level as the very heart of the matter.

Since that week so long ago, that same feeling has been resurrected so many times, the experience still enriching my life today, and I am ever grateful to those who took the care to provide me with such special opportunities for spiritual growth while I was yet a child.

Lord, how marvelous is Thy creation, which speaks to us so eloquently of worlds deeper than all our imaginings! May be grateful for all Thy servants who years ago sowed the seeds for our spiritual growth. May we do the same for the young people in our care and our concern. May we nurture those delicate young sprigs of wonder, hope and joy in the created world, that they may blossom into maturity and endure to the end of their days, come what may. Amen

Contributed by Diane S.
Published Monday July 7, 2003
Week 32 of Liturgical Year B