Recently I wrote a short memoir piece trying to describe something that happened a few years ago when I found a beautiful area at Hiawatha, a youth camp in Michigan's upper peninsula. This account is not literal but tries to describe some of the mental imagery I have when worshiping and when in the presence of God.
The Symphony Of The Redwoods
It's little more than an old piece of wood sticking out among the trees, but I spot it when walking back to the cabin one day. I'm not sure how I've never noticed it before. We've rented this exact cabin for the last two years and I never saw it. It catches my eye this year, though, and, of course, I have to investigate.
"The Cathedral of the Redwoods"
The words have been shielded by the large trees surrounding the sign. I was nearly born on these campgrounds and I've never heard of any sort of cathedral.
The path beyond twists into obscurity and I follow it carefully. It fades in and out of view, but when it grows faint another sign will point in the direction I'm meant to go. Dead, golden leaves cover my steps despite the bloom of summer.
I glance backward, trying to be sure I'll find my way back. There's never any cell service here and I'm not interested in an indefinite walk through the woods.
Did a congregation once gather here to worship? Who put up the signs, and how long ago?
While I'd be tempted to guess they were ancient based on how ragged some of the signs are and how overgrown the path is, the empty campground was often ravaged during the winter, fall, and spring before we returned to tend for it. It may have only been a couple years, or it may have been several decades.
Just when I consider turning back, it opens up to a clearing. There is no great Gothic structure or decrepit chapel awaiting me. There are only some logs that may have been placed intentionally as rows or may have fallen over.
A small stream, which I know to be an offshoot of the lagoon, cuts through the clearing and there's plenty of trees that look like they might fall on me, but I don't feel afraid.
Instead, I feel a hand in mine and walk among the rows, among the ghosts. Despite the weight of the past year, I am at peace. I'm not sure if the spirits belong to humanity or to nature itself, but I know they are with me and the presence of Christ.
They stand all around me, raising their hands into the air and shutting their eyes. They sing so loudly that their throats ache with the effort, but so softly a child could fall asleep in perfect peace. Voices join the wind, harmonies rustle the leaves far above our heads.
They know they are heard and there is no need to shout, but they shout out of pure adoration. It is a joy that bubbles with the nearby stream and is capable of overcoming every stone, one that allows fish to grow and ecosystems to thrive.
A soft warmth envelops my entire being and allows me to exist in the metaphysical without fear or shame. Regardless of what this place once was, now it is a symphony celebrating the greatest kindness I know.
I sit in either a pew or on a felled log and Christ holds my hand. The presence of God is not distant. He is with me, mingling with the trees and the stream and the logs.
His spirit spreads into the air and covers the whole of creation while still holding my hand as tight as possible, promising to never relinquish me.
