Hide and Seek With God

My mom used to say it was the sun that made Florida people crazy.  Having lived in Florida for twenty-five years, I would argue that actually it was the lack of sun that made Florida people crazy.  We were used to short bursts of rain, storms that rolled in and out in minutes.  But if it rained all day, or goodness if it rained two consecutive days, that was when Florida people went crazy.

But my mom was right in one way, because the Florida sun is intense.  Try walking outside in the summer without eye protection and you will feel the sun burning itself on your retinas.  The Florida sun is intense and violent.  It smacks you in the face as soon as you step out your front door.

Everything in Florida is in your face.  Everything is large and demanding of attention.  In the wintertime, if it gets too cold, Iguanas in South Florida fall from the trees.  When it gets a little chilly, manatees flood the canals, dozens if not hundreds of them huddled in just a few feet of water, trying to get warm. 

The boardwalk at the park where I used to take walks was frequently inundated with invasive tree frogs, frogs that I had nicknamed booger frogs because they were so tiny and so green as to look like a piece of snot.  There would sometimes be so many of them, you had to hopscotch your way down the boardwalk, trying desperately to avoid becoming the fourth horseman of the apocalypse to those poor frogs.

In Florida, the natural world appears in ways that are constantly jaw-dropping.  A bobcat once walked by the church window during communion.  I ran outside with my camera to chase it down.  And if you think that sounds strange that I would bring my camera to church—how could I not—that was how often something amazing happened.

One time, I stepped outside to check my mail, and a three-legged bobcat walked past me without a second look, leaping into the canal, swimming a few feet before jumping out and disappearing into the wetlands on the other side.

Twice a year, when the birds migrated, the white pelicans appeared in such huge numbers, there seemed to be a parade of them, a flotilla in the various retention ponds in the neighborhood where they joined cormorants and Great Blue Herons and egrets in fishing.  Osprey soared overhead, joined even by a Bald Eagle once. 

Nature was so awe-inspiring, I would stand there, mouth agape, laughing, while I rubbed the goosebumps from my arms.

And if the natural world wasn’t enough to convince you of a divine creator, there were the rocket launches.  You see I lived on the Space Coast and rockets, especially in the last few years I lived there were such regular occurrences that I completely forgot about the last launch before I moved.

I was sitting in the recliner in the living room when I heard the telltale rumble.  I was so used to rocket launches, I didn’t even get up.  I just leaned over, pulled back the curtain and watched that intense pinprick of light shooting up into the sky.  That’s what rocket launches look like from a distance like someone has pricked the sky with a needle and the light of God has shown through from the other side.  To fly into space is to chase the divine.

Now that I am in Ohio, I can tell you that Ohio is different from Florida.  It is not as in your face.  What little we seem to see of the sun is mostly filtered and diluted from the clouds.  Yes, occasionally, I walk outside and WOW there’s a deer right there just chewing on some clover and pooping in the weeds.

But most days, if I want to find those awe-inspiring, jaw-dropping, natural world God moments, I have to actively search for them.

And that I believe is actually a good thing.

The other day I was out for my walk when I noticed that across the street from the Catholic church, a bunch of a new flowers had suddenly bloomed.  This is one difference between Florida and Ohio that I am enjoying.  Yes, flowers bloom all year round in Florida, but in Ohio, there is a cycle of blooms.  Each particular flower bloom may only last a couple of weeks, but there’s always a new, different flower waiting in the wings, bouncing with excitement, ready for their chance to see the sun and greet the pollinators. 

So I had noticed these flowers the other day, but I only had my phone with me and it was cloudy out and what I really wanted was my camera and some sun.  When I got home, I checked the weather report and saw that we might see some filtered sun for a few hours later that morning.  And sure enough, an hour or so later, I noticed shadows on my floor as the sun peeked in the window.  I was getting ready to run some errands, but moments like these are often fleeting, so I grabbed my camera and walked the block  back to the Catholic church and those wildflowers. 

I got so many good pictures that morning.  This past Sunday in my sermon, I talked about how incredible the universe is, both the universe that exists outside of us, the impossibly large planets and stars and galaxies, but also the universe that exists inside of us, the impossibly small atoms and quantum landscapes. 

And both big and small are equally amazing.

In Florida, I was frequently in awe of the big things—those are easy to find and love, but here in Ohio, I am learning to also be in awe of the small things, the things that might otherwise go unnoticed by everyone except, of course, God.

And so that other morning, as I took pictures of those wildflowers, I have to say my favorite picture was of a bumblebee.  I love bumblebees, not just because they’re the cutest of the bees, the bee least likely to make you freak out when it flies close—I mean, for Pete’s sake, they’re furry.  And seem to openly defy all laws of physics that something that rotund, could fly at all with such fragile, tiny wings. 

Jeremiah 29:13 tells us, “You will seek me and find me, when you seek me with all your heart.”

Even in Florida, when I held contemplative photography workshops, yes, I wanted people to have amazing moments, like the time wild parrots appeared at one of my workshops, as if on cue, as if I had paid them to be there—I wanted people to have those moments, but I also wanted them to actively search, to look for things they might otherwise have ignored.

Sometimes God is in our face and we think, “Oh there He is!” and we miss the fact that He has been there the whole time.  He has not suddenly appeared.  Yes, He’s there in the bobcat, walking by the church window during communion.  But He’s also in the tree frog I found once curled up inside a rose bloom.

And those moments truly bring a smile to my face.

It’s like playing Hide and Seek with God without the stress of thinking you might never find Him. 

He’s everywhere.

Amen.