God, Montana, And A Holy Place

Song of Songs 2:11 …the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come… Arise my love, my fair one, and come away.
Psalms 103:15 As for man…as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth…
Isaiah 40:6-8 …All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field: the grass withereth, the flower fadeth: because the spirit of the Lord bloweth upon it: surely the people is grass. The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: but the word of our God shall stand forever.

Our little ’79 Datsun hatchback was loaded down like water in a glass. In addition to my wife and Sonja, from Brazil, “Li’l Red bulged with all our stuff and our four pre-school and elementary aged children. We had putted from California to Colorado and now were sputtering north through Wyoming, headed towards Montana.

I could hardly believe it, but in the middle of approximately “no where”, Christine spotted a “Yard Sale” sign “somewhere”. Recognizing our priorities, we bounced over a mile of ruts on a dirt road to a lonesome little house where we found a warm family and the yard sale. Of course, these country folks had just the antique horse collar we really needed, (although we didn’t have a horse in our back yard in Anaheim). Into the mix of things it went, and we continued back to the asphalted main road.

Oh, did I mention the dozens of baby frogs that Nathan and Steven had caught by an irrigation water spout near my sister’s farm in Colorado? Did I mention they somehow discovered freedom as we sauntered north in between “relief” stops alongside the sleepy highway and got out of their wire cage?  

From the back to the front of the car there were suddenly dozens of little springy jumpers celebrating their advancing growth cycle. I figured they were teenager frogs, crazy with excitement and a chance for adventure. While the women and our daughters screamed and then looked for roadside relief, the boys and I sprang into action to catch these little critters and secure them in their cage for a second time. It was unthinkable, of course, to leave them (i.e., the frogs) in the wilds of Wyoming. It was imperative they share the rest of the trip with us.

I felt like a pioneer as we finally began to ascend and descend to and through the mountains and valleys of the unspeakable beauty of Montana. As we wound around here and there on the highway, the splendor of Nature’s glory rose and fell, coasted and soared like an endless hall of music. One moment it seemed to play softly like the strings in a symphony, and then gradually build into ear-splitting crescendos of trumpets, cymbals and tympanis under the gentle control of their matchless Maestro in His little bow tie, His kindly, strained face expressing passion like ecstatic, warbling fowl greeting the breaking day.

It seemed even Li’l Red could hardly keep those tiny thirteen inch tires on the road midst the delicacies of this visual buffet in the wilderness. The spectacle of Nature, spreading from our eyes gazing with necks turned upwards, then diving into valleys heading below…the glory was nearly too much for us to contain. Midst the highs and lows was the horizon’s flowing of meadows delicately dancing with the joy of myriads of little flowers of more colors and kinds than it would seem the whole world might own.
I don’t remember exiting our little hatchback. I only remember walking with my little ones and my beloved, hushed as though we were spying upon an intimate secret wonder in process, approaching and entering this endless, speckled, fragrant, cloth netting of many colors, or like we were entering the awesome, secret chamber of a holy King.
I had no doubt that while men may have once walked where we were, no one had ever seen these little flowers and their passing fancy. It was as though Majesty was so wealthy He could afford to invest unspeakable honor for just a moment, into an ocean of inhaling and exhaling, overwhelming, splendiferous glory. The rainbowed, perfumed meadow  was unspeakably spectacular in and of itself.

These little flowers in their setting were expansive in explaining the heart of the Creator with no agenda, no anxious ends to accomplish and no need to be seen. They just were, and we were like visitors peeking through secret shades, stealing glimpses of honor never seen before and not to be seen quite like that ever again.

Soon, they would fade, and that thought welled up in me like liquid sorrow, coupled with goose-bump joy birthed in me only moments before. I was overpowered with the thought that my Creator is so rich, with such excess abundance that He delighted to waste a thousand million colored smiles in this theater, unconcerned whether they would ever be seen and admired, or not. We had been the uninvited, perusing visitors, enamored and awestruck. What was left for us to do was but to breathe deeply, to weep gently and to worship wonderfully.
Sometimes when I muse upon this visual and olfactory memory of several decades ago, I pause in wonder once again at how wealthy my Father is, how He has done all in splendor, not only for His enjoyment, but for mine, for ours; for us, His little ones on the earth. At least for a moment, once again I feel like I am in a hushed and holy place.

Such a time, such a place, such a moment seems embarrassed by logic, by rationale and schedules, and even my book must close quietly and rest gently on the table while I muse and worship. Is He not so giving, so caring, so sharing that the most grievous things seem to be swallowed up in His tender hands for a time? Like a lullaby to a troubled little one, My Father seems to soothe me with His voice, even as He wipes my tear and brushes my face with His care.

Richard A Nelson