Sometimes a city friend would come over, and he would want
to get up early and take our BB guns out squirrel hunting. We never saw a
single squirrel, and that was probably okay with me. The forest was a magical
place, more fit for a sword or wizard’s staff than a gun. My dad once made for
me a wooden sword and shield to wield on my forest adventures. I couldn’t have
been more pleased if I had been Arthur pulling Excalibur from the Stone. The
forest was my kingdom, and I its princely protector. I loved the place: every tree
of the forest, every babble of the creek that flowed through it, every stone in
the creek bed, every blade of grass on creek bank and field, and every warm
breeze that bent those blades, blowing past us, whispering mysteries of
fleeting childhood.
On the border of my kingdom, my eldest uncle’s house sat,
its back to the dirt road. The front of the house faced the forest. Even then,
even with my love for the land, this seemed odd to me. Why build your front
door facing out of sight, away from the road, as if to shy from its connection
to society?
I recently visited my parents’ house on a Saturday morning.
I was helping my dad with a project in the backyard. As we worked, I noticed
the trees surrounding the backyard cove. The forest is older now, and thinner.
But the trees are wiser with age, and more beautiful. When we finished working,
I took a moment to study them. The concave tree-line was a mirror of my own
heart. The land was quiet, peaceful. The wind blew.
Breaking the beckoning silence: “I think I’m going to walk
down to the barn,” I told my dad.
I walked down the dusty road to the barn and went inside, breathing in the familiar
smell of dirt and rust. Bees buzzed from their nests in the old horse stalls. I
walked through the missing gate and into the brush of the once open field behind
the barn. Making my way across the field, I walked, not climbed, over a fallen
wire fence. On the other side, I found the old wooded trail that runs behind
our house, surprised that some semblance of it still could be recognized. The
trail led down to the creek, where I once crossed the stream on stepping stones
or with a single, brave leap. This was now as far as I could go. Time had
steepened the bank, and the creek was no longer crossable without some effort.
The old king of Narnia no longer knew the way through his ancient kingdom. I
stood there awhile, listening, bathing in the sound of water running over the
smoothed rocks. Sunlight splashed the tree leaves as they quietly rustled in the
cool morning breeze.
“I could build a house here,” I thought.
Like Peter on the Mount of Olives, I could conceive of no
better response to the glory around me than to take up residence in its midst.
I can imagine such a life, such a homestead in the woods. I would walk out my
door on a Saturday morning to the happy murmuring of the creek. I would look up
and see sunlight glimmering in the gently swaying treetops. I would sense the
Spirit whisper mysteries in the wind, the mysteries of turning old and growing
young. Like a gray king, or a wise
uncle, I would look out with knowing eyes. All of my kingdom would stretch
before me as I stood there, right outside my door – my front door.
You could come to visit. You could follow the dirt road
right up to my back door. You are welcome to come inside for some coffee and
conversation. Eventually, when we’ve said all there is to say, we’d make our
way out to the front porch and sit and listen. That’s when the real
conversation would begin, but not between us. From the front porch, that cupped
hand on the house’s ear, we would eavesdrop on ancient conversations between
water and stone, wind and tree, sunlight and horizon. We’ll hear their tales of
great adventures past and yet to come. And in that moment,
we’ll be happy the front porch faces such a fine society. And we will breathe deeply the fine breaths of our
Saturday evening.
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