Saturday. Sofa. Coffee.
The sights and sounds of Spring springing to life would not let me sleep this morning. The sun rose over the ridge of Straight Mountain, throwing its first gentle rays through my bedroom window, gently tapping my shoulders and then my head, like a cat who is ready to get up and play, but needs a playmate. I pulled the covers over my head. But like the cat's persistence, the rays of the sun became more insistent, and somehow seemed to get beneath the covers, getting right in my face, pawing it, until I agreed that it was time to get up and join in welcoming the day.
It was just as well, because by then birds on the hillside were tuning up, singing louder and louder as the sun rose higher above the eastern horizon. I love that sound, even though they never seem to be finished tuning up and performing anything as written.
Finally in motion I moved to the coffee machine, poured in the water and beans, and braced myself for the not so pretty sound of the grinder cranking up and doing its work. It too is a sound that I love, even though if made by a different appliance I would be highly annoyed. Like Pavlov's dog, who probably fell in love with the otherwise annoying sound of bells ringing when it meant food, the sound of the grinder has become a sacrament to me, as it portends the arrival of God's unmerited flavor.
While I was in the process of my morning coffee bean grinding, I looked up and out the window into the trees just behind the house, lit up brilliantly by the morning sun.. There was something moving. At first I thought I was imagining things, probably a left over from a fitful night of sleep punctuated by the bumps and shuffles in the dark that happen when one lives at the edge of the woods.
I poured my coffee and moved toward the sofa. There it was again, something moving, as I looked up and out the den window. I squinted, trying to increase the power of the lens of my eyes like the Bionic Man used to do. That did not work. No grid appeared in my viewfinder and nothing was magnified, nor was there that cheesy sound effect that went along with the Bionic Man's capabilities. But then, as I began to sit, I saw it.
There was a beautiful doe about 30 feet behind the house, grazing on anything green she could find. I sat down with my coffee and again looked out the window. She was gone. Where did she go so quickly? It was only a second before that she had been standing right there.
But then I saw a movement. I squinted again. There she was, in the same place she had been before, never having moved from that spot. I just could not see her as she perfectly blended with the late winter, early spring forest. I could only find her when she moved. If I took my eyes off of her for a second, she seemed to disappear.
I grabbed my phone for a pic. I must have tried ten times, aiming right where I knew she was. But she never showed up in the photo. I took my eyes away from the phone and looked up. She was there.
But I was not going to get a picture to share with y'all.
I love the photos I take with my phone. But I am afraid that sometimes I miss the moment for trying to capture it. You would think I would learn. How much basketball have I missed trying to take a photo of basketball? How much fun have I missed trying to capture the perfect picture of a child having fun? How much enjoyment have I missed trying to capture the talent of my favorite performers in concert? How much of the majesty of God's creation have I missed trying to reduce it to so many two dimensional pixels? How much peace have I missed fretting over trying to photograph a deer who wasn't interested in being seen by anyone, except maybe me.
How much life have I missed?
Sometimes the moment is meant just for those present. That is the nature of moments. They are just still shots of the constantly-moving forward motion of time. A moment moves on, like waters of the river flowing around the bend. It really cannot be captured. And when I try, I become a mere observer of the moment, not a full participant.
Sometimes, I guess, you just have to be there.
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Amen
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