Quick Announcement:
Hello, dear friends, and happy November!
This year, the start of the liturgical season of Advent begins on November 27th. This is one of my favorite times of the year, and one I’m deeply passionate about! Back in 2020 I wrote a poetry-based perpetual devotional for Advent called Pilgrim God and made it free to download, because I felt called to share encouragement without cost during that difficult time. I designed it to be used any year, every year, so once you download it you can read it forever.
Well, times have stayed strange and difficult for many, so Pilgrim God remains both available and FREE to all. If you would like to download your own PDF copy, you can visit the Downloads page of my website here. I hope my words bless your holiday season!
Thank you for joining us!
Before we begin our devotional, I wanted to share a Comment Highlight from last week:
On last week’s essay about my annual tradition of feeding the birds through winter, Terry Freedman wrote:
We feed the birds in our garden, and every morning we can see them waiting patiently on the sidelines until we've done so. They trust us too: we can actually get quite close to them before they fly off, although we do try not to disturb them. What I find astonishing is that some of them are so intelligent that they can recognise individual human faces! We're so lucky to have them around.
I sense a kindred spirit, Terry! Thank you for commenting! Terry curates a fantastic newsletter all about writers and writing called Eclecticism. Highly recommended reading!
If you want a chance to be featured in next week’s Comment Highlight, all you have to do is post a comment on any of this week’s posts or threads. That’s it!
Now, on with this week’s devotional…
the muddy trail is revealed only once a year like some hidden path in a fairytale story. once a year everything is laid bare: beaver-feet deer-prints glades where water-plants are uncovered blinking in the summer sun; for a few months, everything is seen. and then the rains come puddles, ponds, streams rise the veil drops and this muddy trail is hidden from view until we meet again.
Our home sits on five acres. I often call these acres “wooded”, and they are, but it would also be accurate to say that they are very, very marshy.
We are fortunate that the house itself is situated up high, without fear of the mud, but all around us lie ponds, small lakes, and fir-enclosed marshland. These waterways connect in a fine dance along a route that winds away from our house on either side, up to one neighbor’s big pond and down to another. We are somewhere in the middle, and our stretch of the stream is sluggish and punctuated with fallen tree boughs and dead timber riddled with holes. Alders grow with wild, gleeful abandon out of the muck, and reeds and mushrooms cover every inch of what isn’t underwater.
This marshy stretch is a seasonal almanac. In the summer, as the rains become less frequent, the stream slowly dries up until the whole area is soft, but traversable. We can walk far, see glades where the deer hide, find large boulders and stumps as yet uncharted. Sweet woodruff grows in a wild, fragrant carpet all around and the frogs and dragonflies hide in the shady spots. Beaver and deer footprints become prominent along narrow, muddy byways. The pond is the very last thing to empty, usually in the latest of late summer.
But it’s only empty for a few weeks. In the fall, when the rains return, it doesn’t take long for everything to refill.
There is always a moment in that last part of summer, walking the muddy path, when I am gripped with a small but persistent panic. What if, this year, the pond doesn’t refill? What if this mud is all there will be, from now on? What if it stays empty?
But I never need to worry. Because every year, the pond comes back.
It is November, and the rains are here. A week ago there was no pond. Now there is. The stream is slowly filling in. It will start with puddles, then rise to rivulets. The dance begins, again.
As I stand on the last muddy trails—knowing that soon they, too, will be underwater—I thank the pond for the annual lesson that I never seem to learn.
Nothing is emptied that will not be refilled.
Thank you for reading!
Moved by this piece (or simply feel like supporting my coffee habit) and want to contribute a one-time donation? Click the Tip Jar button below!
Did this piece resonate with you? Take a moment to share it!
If you enjoy this piece, please let me know by tapping the heart to like, comment with your thoughts, share with someone you think will enjoy it, and subscribe to get instant access to my future work right to your inbox. Blessings!
I see a connection b/t the feeding of the birds (that they trust you will feed them) and the pond (that you trust God will fill them). The way we can provide for birds through winter, God provides for us the way he provide water for the pond. Thanks for the post. Great reminder.