For Wilshire Baptist Church
Have you ever noticed how impossibly close ducks can fly just above the water without their wing tips touching the surface or their movement causing a ripple? I observed this and other feats of wonder early Sunday morning at White Rock Lake.
I had dropped LeAnn off at Wilshire at 7:30. She was playing flute with the Carillon Ringers in both services and needed to be there early to rehearse. At first I considered staying home and going later, but we try not to drive two cars to church, so I thought about just sitting someplace quiet such as the chapel, or going to Starbucks with my iPad and working on something. Instead, I drove the two miles to the lake to see what nature had to offer. Nature did not disappoint.
The temperature was mild for January, but the sky was gray and the air was damp so I sat in the car and watched the world from behind the windshield. I wanted to listen to some music too and chose instrumental selections from film composer Ennio Morricone. Not his iconic tunes from westerns like “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly,” but his quiet, contemplative pieces from Italian films I have never seen.
So what did I see? Joggers running, ducks and smaller birds flying, cyclists cruising – mostly north to south on an early-morning commute to some destination. Out on the calm, still water, a trio of pelicans floated effortlessly toward one of the small bays. A flock comes to the lake each winter from somewhere north and enjoys a sort of celebrity among the smaller water fowl. On the reeds in front of me, red-winged blackbirds held on tightly and danced with the breeze, while sparrows and blackbirds perched in the trees above them, picking at the nubs of buds on the branches as if trying to pull forth the new leaves of spring.
On the path between the water and me, the humans were mostly middle agers, and not the beautiful people but the average ones, pushing and striving toward some personal goal. Some were wearing the full catalog of trendy running gear while others looked like they pulled on whatever they had left on the floor the previous night. Among them, a jogger pushed a buggy with a child clearly too big to be pushed. Perhaps the kid was disadvantaged, or maybe the parent was working on her endurance and resistance. Two large groups of what looked like middle schoolers jogged by looking slim and fit as most kids do, and I wondered what brought them out together on a damp Sunday morning? Mixed in was a man with a large digital camera, darting his eyes and moving his lips as if to conjure up the perfect shot.
Morricone was a good musical companion for the viewing. LeAnn gave me a book about him and I’ve enjoyed reading about how he uses different instruments including human voices to create varied textures of sound and emotion. And that’s what I was seeing in front of me: the varied shapes and conditions of the human body. I was reminded how frail and limited and brief we are, and I wondered how many of us will be here next winter when the pelicans return?
There was a time earlier in my life when I’d pass the lake people on my way to Wilshire and think, “What’s wrong with them? They should be at church.” And a time when nobody was watching and I’d go to the lake too or stay home. And there’ve been stretches of weeks when I’ve had so much to do at church that I’ve felt it to be more a job than a time of worship.
By 9 a.m. the human parade had dwindled and so too the birds except for a pair of pelicans accompanied by a flotilla of black coots. I’m not sure about the connection, but the coots were constantly diving below the surface, perhaps to stir up the fish for their seasonal guests. But what do the coots get in return? And why do I think there should be reciprocity? Is that just my human greed showing?
Those were questions that had to go unanswered because it was time to go to church.