night owls

All the leaves are brown, 

And the sky is grey

I went for a walk on a winter's day

I'd be safe and warm if I was in L.A.

California dreamin' 

on such a winter's day

I stopped into a church 

I passed along the way

You know, I got down on my knees

And I pretend to pray

Oh, the preacher likes the cold

He knows I'm gonna stay

Oh, California dreamin' on such a winter's day.

Written by John and Michelle Phillips, © 1966

That is the song in my head right now. It's dark and cold.  And quiet.  It's the time of year that makes me long for sunny beaches, sweaty trail runs, tshirts and bare feet.  It's hard to get out of bed, hard to leave the house, hard to be "sunny".

The darkness isn't just a weather thing.  We keep getting phone calls announcing sickness and treatment plans.  Loved ones are moving across country, from "any time-around the corner" here, to only vacations and plane trips away. Our case loads drop dramatically in the winter due to death.  Our spirits are gray and grim.  Life is mean sometimes.

And the quiet isn't just a sound thing.  There is a quiet after the festivities of Christmas.  There is a quiet that comes from gritting through and a quiet in withdrawing.  There is a "winter of the soul" when God's light is not so obvious.  When even God is quiet.

A couple nights ago I was standing on my front porch at 3:00 AM.  I wrapped a cozy blanket around me as I waited in the dark for our puppy to circle the yard and find her perfect pooping spot. I am never outside at 3:00 AM and was captivated by the stillness, the twinkling stars and crisp air.  I stood perfectly still soaking it all in.  Then, through the quiet, something fluttered down to the ground about two feet from me.  I stared at a little brown and white owl, oblivious to my presence. He had a beautiful round face and soft feathers.  He grabbed a worm, then flew up to a branch next to me.  After gulping it down, he fluttered back down to the sidewalk next to me and stood quietly with me.  Until puppy came bounding back and the little owl flew off.

It was a magical moment.  Somehow it felt like a holy gift.  I crawled back into my warm bed feeling incredibly lucky to have been a part of the night.  I thought about the saying, scrawled in chalk, on our office wall.  "If you love SURPRISES, you are going to love LIFE."

I want to remember, in the cold, in the darkness, that there will be another summer.  The sun will shine again.  And in the meantime there will be warm blankets, hot chocolate, starry skies.  There may even be an owl or two.

In Still, Notes on a Mid-Faith Crisis, Lauren Winner talks about how, no matter what life brings you, "two years from now you will know some things about God that you don't know now."  And through the times where God is silent "You begin to think that maybe you can wait in the company of God's silence and see what you can see, about this God, about yourself.  Later still: Maybe this silence, this absence, is a gift.  Maybe what began as punishment is being converted to become an experience of God's strangeness, God's mystery.  You think:  Maybe I am being shown something here, if I would look, if I would see.  You think of these words from the prophet Zephaniah: He will shout with joy for you, He will jump for you in jubilation, He will be silent in His love."