If He Looks at Me at All

If He looks at me at all, He will find me illuminated by a strange fire. I’ve taken my place in the woods, a few steps off the path worn into the ground from the usual trespassers. I’ve made my camp in a humble way, shaded by trees, my bed of leaves, a few fallen branches and twigs lit to cook over and heat my palace.

Above me, the birds provide my music — daily sing-song of different melodies and cadences. I sit and listen as they adjust the volume and the tunes. Sometimes I sing back. I’ve brought with me certain books with words that penetrate deeply to my heart and, at intervals, lead me into deep prayer. My thoughts are disturbed — innocently so — by deer passing under branches and smaller creatures, either finches or squirrels, leaping or fluttering from branch to branch.

In my hermitage, I’ve escaped the rush of the world that consumes me for the larger part of the day. But I can retire here — it’s a truth I look forward to when I consider all the day’s demanding deadlines and the cut-offs of tomorrow. Pull my blanket up leaves up over me father, tuck me in while the day comes down to twilight, and here in the trees sundown comes just a heartbeat earlier. Draw me closer to your truths as I lose myself to myself and it is you who becomes me.

I love my God. I wish that I could help the lost feel him as closely as I do. By my words, I wish I could impart the real feeling of protection, love and even rebirth, but to experience you goes beyond all language. Beyond the pastor’s fiery sermon or the harrowing testimony of someone who was once worldly, like me, but now in every way lives their best to be a saint.

This withdrawal — being hidden away in the tree cover — is where I can see myself best. I look back to my days as a child and it was the same then, living perfectly protected from the chaos while playing in the woods. The more the world advances, the more I withdraw and put my attention on you, my rock.

Make my bed here and build your church. The stained glass windows being the oaks, the organist being the birds of the sky, your altar being my backpack and the congregation being all that is alive out here, which is to say, everything. Write a letter to my church, Lord, and tell me how beautiful it is, but also castigate me for my sins. The exclusivity of leaving everyone to start this private place to worship in solitude.

If you see me at all, find me in worship. As the sun comes down and the light dims, find me at rest in this holy place, and bring me away from the fire cleansed and ready for the battle of worldly man.