Not long ago I spent a week of solitude with a writing friend at a hunter’s lodge in eastern Oklahoma. The beautiful lodge stands on a craggy bluff overlooking the broad Arkansas river. Writing comes forth easily in that place due to the exquisite silence and natural beauty pervading the vast acres of woods and grassland. I am definitely not a hunter but I longed to see some of the creatures inhabiting the area. So, I decided to spend a night in one of the hunting blinds. As I planned for this adventure, I conjured up all sorts of wonderful “God-moments” that would occur: the sight of bobcats and herds of deer, the sound of the new-born coyote pups yipping in the night, waterfowl on the pond, and an exquisite sunrise.
When I viewed the blind from the outside earlier in the day, it looked quite adequate for my plan. The enclosed wooden structure stood about fifteen feet off the ground and had small, oblong windows near the top. As I surveyed the situation, I thought, “Perfect. I am going to really feel the Holy One’s presence here.” The night air felt calm as I left the lodge with my sleeping bag, pillow, binoculars, and water bottle. But no sooner had I begun to climb the ladder to the blind when an enormous wind swept into the darkness. I did not know weather warnings of 35 to 50 mph winds were issued for the area. I also did not gauge the inner space well. I found that my 5 ft. 2 in. body barely fit, even lying diagonally. All night long the wind howled while I shivered from the unexpected freezing temperature. I could hear nothing except the moan and wild whoosh of the oak trees above me. At 5:00 a.m. I awoke from my restless sleep and thought, “Oh, good, now the animals will appear.” I watched and waited for two hours in the murky, clouded dawn but all I saw was a fat skunk ambling by, and no sunrise.
Why am I telling you this? I learned a valuable lesson that night: I cannot determine and control when and how a “God-moment” will happen. I wanted to make it happen but nothing turned out as I expect. No ecstatic response to nature. No comforting sense of divine presence. I realized anew that spiritual experiences are not in my power to create and control. Nor do they turn out the way I envision. But that night did contain “God-moments,” although totally different than my intended ones. Being in the hunter’s blind during that wild wind led me to surrender myself into the Creator’s care when I met my fear about being injured or killed by a tree falling on me. And my compassion grew stronger as I lay there in the cramped space, thinking of what a prisoner confined to a tiny cell might feel, or an immigrant squeezed between others in the back of a truck, or a homeless person out in the cold.
As Easter approaches, I recall the tendency to program one’s self into having an “emotional high.” In Fresh Bread, I describe how it’s not uncommon to have an expectation of feeling euphoric on this significant Christian feast. Yet, our mind and heart may be weighed down with sadness, or have unresolved concerns embedded in our spirit. No matter how we try to force them away, these inner disturbances can remain. Hope-filled “alleluia feelings” cannot be forced at Easter any more than I could conjure up a spiritual experience in the hunter’s blind. At the same time, if the mind and heart are open, we may be visited by “little Easters,” those seemingly insignificant and unexpected moments that expand faith and increase hope. But these moments are not ours to create or control. We trust, and wait for the Risen One to surprise us.
© Joyce Rupp
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