Take notice and keep thinking

This past week has been one of “extremes” for me.

 

Overnight into Thursday, my area seems to have gotten somewhere between four and six inches of rain, depending on whose rain gauge is regarded as the most reliable. I know I heard pounding rain on the roof through much of the night, and in the morning there was water across the gravel road a ways down from my house. This has happened before, since the road crosses through a relatively low area not far from the LeSueur River, but it doesn’t happen often.

 

I couldn’t help driving the couple of hundred feet to the edge of the overflowing water just to have a look. The water was probably six inches deep at its deepest, but was flowing quickly across the road, washing sand away and leaving a gravelly surface which gave the water the appearance of a miniature rapids.

 

While I was there, my heart went out to three killdeer who were wandering about in confusion and apparent distress.

 

All through this summer, I’ve been taking note of the birds. They often make their nests in tall grass next to the road. They have a daring way of dealing with predators. When a threat approaches, the bird will walk out in the open, often making sounds of apparent distress. That call, which sounds somewhat like the words “kill deer” to a human, is piercing.

 

The defensive technique is that, once the predator has moved away from the nest by following the apparently injured and easy target, the bird suddenly recovers and flies away. All summer, the birds seem to have been trying that technique as my car approached, as though the vehicle were a predator. Hoping I was the worst danger their nests were faced with, it made me smile to see them.

 

But now they had been confounded by a force greater than any of us on the road. That had come to include the driver of a semi truck loaded with gravel which had arrived, unaware the place he was meant to deposit his load was no longer in condition to receive it. The driver came to a stop in the middle of the road, greeted me, then walked a short way out into the water. “My boots are supposed to be waterproof,” he observed—and apparently they were, since he made no complaint. The water came over the top of his feet, but no higher. “I know they say not to drive through moving water,” he said, “ but backing a loaded semi rig a mile to the last intersection isn’t an option.”

 

During our brief conversation, the killdeer rushed about—now confused both by the presence of humans and the inexplicable disappearance of their nests. At one point, one of the birds walked into the deeper water along the side of the road; the bird appeared to be swimming, with its belly touching the water. I thought of their long-defended nests and wondered sadly whether they had washed away or were simply submerged.

 

As the week progressed, I thought of the birds persistently, and of nature’s harsh realities.

 

The birds’ tragedy contrasted with the essentially triumphant experience of the Bayside Waterski Club out of Albert Lea. They, too, were victims of a sort of “washout,” with Fountain Lake so full of water a no wake rule had to be imposed. Human ingenuity—and technology based on some of those same laws of nature that made the flooding inevitable once the rain fell--allowed them to relocate their elaborate large-scale event with less than 24 hours’ notice.

 

I guess my moments watching the birds put me in the mood for reflection. I noticed and appreciated the rich greens of summer as I drove by stands of trees. As I moved about in the oppressive heat, I thought of the indigenous people who once experienced similar weather while dressed in leather clothing. I thought of them, too, sheltering during rainstorms in structures which could hold out only a certain amount of water.

 

It seemed there was a figurative valley for every hill I came upon.

 

I spoke with kind and giving individuals doing things they love. Those people were like shining lights, emanating goodwill and generosity. I learned of others in our communities whose deeds are like dark caves, too frightening even for the imagination to enter.

 

I held my smooth-cheeked grandson in my arms as he fell asleep, thinking of the many future adventures he represents, and couldn’t help picturing my 92-year-old mother-in-law, now on hospice and also asleep much of the time, gradually letting go of life.

 

There was nothing to be “done” about any of these observations, except to take notice and keep thinking.

 

What a rich tapestry we are threaded through, we humans, woven in and out, making contact with light and dark, bounty and loss. We can lift each other in big and small ways, sometimes thanks to planning and commitment, sometimes simply by chancing to be in the right place at the right time. I am grateful for my faith that God is in control, because this week has reminded me each moment remakes us into something like a wind-blown seed released into the wind. We are loose and free and ready to grow in new ways, with no control over where we will land or how long we will stay there.