Sunday Morning

Sunday morning. The sky is clear. No fog blankets the lake so I can see the the pine needles settled in the gutters of the dance hall on the far side of the lake, .3 miles away. I can make out the roof line of the farm house on the hill beyond the north end, over four miles away. The first loon of the day has made his appearance fifty yards from the end of our dock. I took my coffee there an hour and a half ago just as the mist lifted. There isn’t a ripple anywhere to be seen, the surface of the lake as still as glass. Even Lucy is silent as she follows my cast, the plop of the spinner entering the water produces as echo and I almost feel like I should apologize to someone. I don’t catch anything and its just as well.

I wake up early here, even earlier than at home. For one thing, the sun comes up earlier and takes forever to set across the way in the evening. But it isn’t the daylight that wakes me so early, it’s something else, harder to define. On some level I don’t want to miss the morning, its beauty and the tranquility of the water. Later on the wind will stir it up, the clouds will pass over, the weather will come, the boats dragging screaming children will send wakes everywhere. The lake will look far different then than it does now.

The very first time I ever had breakfast at the table on the deck at Loon Landing I looked out at the lake and this was my view…

Nothing spectacular. There are much more photogenic vistas to be had from this property. But this one captivated me then as it still does today. It is as if I’m inside of a painting gazing out at the world, the lake bordered with lush trees and shrubs. The hanging chair in the foreground is one of Pam’s favorite spots to read a book on her Kindle.

After breakfast I have to decide what I will busy myself with today. I’m leaning towards taking the boat out and circumnavigating the 8 mile perimeter of the lake. I might bring my fishing gear along in case I get tempted. I’ll take some pictures. First, I’ll have to wait a couple hours for Pam to come back from her morning paddle. The conditions right now are perfect for her. She will be gone an extra long time.

Its Sunday. In about an hour my church will be gathering for worship. They will be live-streaming the service. We won’t be watching live, but later tonight we will gather around after dinner to watch with my sister and her husband who are staying in the guest house this week. We will look for our nephew Isaac in the praise band. We will listen to one of our pastors, probably David Dwight, deliver another message in the series on The Sermon on the Mount. The irony is not lost on me that our pastors chose a series on the most influential and transformative words ever spoken at the very time when I am in the most influential and transformational place on earth. I will be paying closer attention than I usually do. I find that my heart is more tender, more receptive to truth up here. There are fewer distractions, I suppose, but its more than that. Maybe it has something to do with being surrounded by so much beauty. Observe the magnificence of creation long enough and you start to feel everything artificial in your life draining out of your soul. 21st century life is filled with so much plastic, so many things that aren’t real. But you don’t even notice it until you come to a place where all the trash feels terribly out of place.

A couple days ago I was down at the dam fishing. I had been standing barefoot in the chilly water for an hour when I hooked into a magnificent little small mouth bass. He fought hard never once breaking the water. I lifted him out of the water and the sun shone off his dark scales. He was a perfect fish, perfectly made, expertly sculpted in the depths somewhere. We had a brief conversation. I apologized for any inconvenience my skills as a fisherman had caused him. Then I dropped him gently into the white rapids beneath my feet. 

I whispered a prayer of thanks that I get to be in this place, that I get to bear witness to the created world. I will continue to let it reshape my thoughts for three more weeks. It won’t be enough, but it will be a start.