One Sunday a few weeks ago, before going Christmas shopping, Mrs. P and I went first to the park for a stroll. The day was mild for December, and the sky was blue crystal, a flawless gem that sparkled with sunshine.  

The park was largely deserted: everyone was out shopping or home decorating or baking. It wasn’t just people who were missing: the animals were largely absent as well. We heard no squirrels gnawing nuts open, no deer traipsing through the dead leaves, no geese honking out flight instructions as they made patterns in the sky. Kingfishers and woodpeckers had taken throat rattles and head banging elsewhere, or were taking a siesta. 

After walking a while, we paused at the creekside, where we often stop. There’s a bench a few feet from the edge of the bank and about six or eight feet above the creek that invites contemplation. The giant hollowed-out sycamore we admire rises on the opposite shore and about ten feet upstream of this resting spot.  

The stillness embraced us. The creek flowed from left to right quickly but quietly, the only sound the occasional gloop caused by a piece of branch being dipped by the light breeze into the water. The surface of the water was smooth, albeit constantly in motion.

The sycamore and the darker trees near it reflected on the water, shimmering but slightly in the easy current. The shadows of trees on our bank loomed over the creek but did not quake at the edges as those reflections did. We puzzled until realizing that the shadows were cast on the creek’s sandy bed rather than its liquid surface, making them stable rather than shifting.  

The peaceful moment lulled the call to responsibility. We were rewarded as we lingered when the revelation of the shadows was followed by another wonder. 

Some faint sense of motion on the opposite shore drew our attention to a dark, furrowed tree upstream from the sycamore. As our eyes became attuned, we saw what appeared to be loosely parallel horizontal bands of faint light, about six inches apart, each of which began about five or six feet up the tree trunk and moved down its length to the ground in a continuous flow. Dazzled, we realized that the movement was the reflection of sunlight off the faint ripples of the creek onto the tree bark.  

As we focused more, we saw a variation of the same motion—even more faintly—on a lighter tree nearby and again in the darkness at the top of the sycamore’s hollow. The light show formed the reverse of the tree shadows on the creekbed—light, where they were dark; lively, where they were still; compressed, where each of them extended many feet.  

We had not remembered seeing anything like it before. This special serving of grace remains imprinted on our minds. 

May your year be filled with such moments of wonder.  

Words © 2012 AtHome Pilgrim.

All Rights Reserved.