You may think my question about the voice of the crow is ridiculous and my whole attitude is selfish and juvenile. And I agree about the attitude. Because when I hear songbirds in the spring I find it very easy to celebrate God’s revelation of himself. But when I hear the raspy, staccato caw of the crow I am not so sure that God is the author.
The cardinal gets your attention with the confident and measured beauty of his call. He is letting the world know that this is the time and the place where new life will begin under his care and defense. The robin sings a happy song that proclaims the release of our world from the cold, dark night of winter. Every day you awaken to his song is a day that promises to be softer and warmer than the day before. In the simple little world that revolves around me and my experience this is how God speaks. These are the messages that he communicates.
My world needs to grow and mature to hear God in the voice of the crow. When I see the big black bird perched atop a denuded tree branch I see a prophet, not a soloist. And when I hear his voice it sounds like an alarm.
So if I believe that God lives and speaks and reveals himself to me in the caw-caw of the crow as well as the lovely notes of the songbirds I accept that all is not well in my world and God knows it. There is an end to the springtime and God wants me to know this. If he is speaking to me I must learn to understand his message and gather the courage to respond.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
Camping with the Crow
We went camping last weekend at Westwood Lake near New Castle, Indiana. We camp at Westwood a couple times every year with many of the same families in a large group campsite. Our family has grown in tune with the rhythms of the lake and the woods and the wildlife. And we’ve grown increasing familiar with the families we camp with and over the years we’ve created a comfortable camp-out culture.
Our culture includes staying up very late around the campfire trading snacks and stories and feeding the flames. We sing songs, play games, roast marshmallows and consume choice beverages. Watching the weather radar and identifying constellations with smart-phones are relatively new amusements. Repelling fearless raccoons and calling spooky hoot owls is the stuff of our legends.
The unruly children are the first to be wrestled into bed, followed by the ones who finally crash from their high on s’mores. Some of the adults succumb early to the fresh air and fatigue, but many of us are only driven to bed by the mesmerizing peacefulness that radiates from the campfire in the wee hours of the morning.
Waking up in the tent is one of reasons I am drawn to the camping experience. I find it strangely exciting to burrow into the mummy bag with a rolled-up sweatshirt for a pillow and wonder what I’ll wake up to, and how I’ll respond to it. Many times I’ve been awakened by distant thunder and lain awake trying to convince myself to go pee in the woods before the rain comes. Sometimes I wake up to the sound of a gentle rain on the tent. I feel so warm and happy in my sleeping bag knowing how precious this time is before I have to unzip the bag and face the reality of life outside the tent.
Last spring at Westwood I remember waking up to the sound of songbirds in the trees above me. They started singing and calling just before the dawn. I fell asleep for a few minutes and awoke again to see the leaves and boughs of the trees overhead projected on the sides of the tent, trembling and waving in the gentle breeze.
Last weekend at Westwood we were rudely awakened by a flock of crows. I think one old crow perched above our camp and cawed in his most annoying crow voice until all the crows around the lake flew in to join him. He would caw some command or insult from his perch and then a group from across the camp would respond with an escalated tirade. Then would come his rebuttal and apparent rebuke, followed by the cawing challenge and castigation from yet another group. Maybe they were just sharing about the bounty of dry corn available or the location of fresh roadkill, but it certainly made sleep impossible and seemed completely impertinent to us campers.
And as I lay there in my down-filled sleeping bag on my softly-sprung cot I began to wonder if God gave the crow his voice. I mean in the Garden of Eden, before the whole snake-and-apple episode, did the crows perch above Adam and Eve as they lay there in their connubial bliss and make the same sound that they made at our campsite in the morning?
My hypothesis is that they did.
Our culture includes staying up very late around the campfire trading snacks and stories and feeding the flames. We sing songs, play games, roast marshmallows and consume choice beverages. Watching the weather radar and identifying constellations with smart-phones are relatively new amusements. Repelling fearless raccoons and calling spooky hoot owls is the stuff of our legends.
The unruly children are the first to be wrestled into bed, followed by the ones who finally crash from their high on s’mores. Some of the adults succumb early to the fresh air and fatigue, but many of us are only driven to bed by the mesmerizing peacefulness that radiates from the campfire in the wee hours of the morning.
Waking up in the tent is one of reasons I am drawn to the camping experience. I find it strangely exciting to burrow into the mummy bag with a rolled-up sweatshirt for a pillow and wonder what I’ll wake up to, and how I’ll respond to it. Many times I’ve been awakened by distant thunder and lain awake trying to convince myself to go pee in the woods before the rain comes. Sometimes I wake up to the sound of a gentle rain on the tent. I feel so warm and happy in my sleeping bag knowing how precious this time is before I have to unzip the bag and face the reality of life outside the tent.
Last spring at Westwood I remember waking up to the sound of songbirds in the trees above me. They started singing and calling just before the dawn. I fell asleep for a few minutes and awoke again to see the leaves and boughs of the trees overhead projected on the sides of the tent, trembling and waving in the gentle breeze.
Last weekend at Westwood we were rudely awakened by a flock of crows. I think one old crow perched above our camp and cawed in his most annoying crow voice until all the crows around the lake flew in to join him. He would caw some command or insult from his perch and then a group from across the camp would respond with an escalated tirade. Then would come his rebuttal and apparent rebuke, followed by the cawing challenge and castigation from yet another group. Maybe they were just sharing about the bounty of dry corn available or the location of fresh roadkill, but it certainly made sleep impossible and seemed completely impertinent to us campers.
And as I lay there in my down-filled sleeping bag on my softly-sprung cot I began to wonder if God gave the crow his voice. I mean in the Garden of Eden, before the whole snake-and-apple episode, did the crows perch above Adam and Eve as they lay there in their connubial bliss and make the same sound that they made at our campsite in the morning?
My hypothesis is that they did.
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