I’m pretty sure that commentary on the weather isn’t the reason you read this blog. But I can’t quite let it pass that yesterday, I was on the lake at 5 a.m., paddling in the dark, in a t-shirt, without a jacket, with no gloves, and a summer cap. And I was working up a sweat. Not bad for the 18th of September. Not bad for just over a week since we had several inches of snow on the ground. I think it was 63 degrees when I left the house. It it higher at the lake, so probably would have been a bit colder, but not much.

The lake is always a good place for solitude. It has a special quality in the dark with a waning moon. The stars are so bright and clear. There is enough light to keep me from being disoriented. And I am paddling on a lake that is very familiar to me.

Near the beginning of the New Testament, Mark, reports that “Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed.” The parallel text in Matthew’s Gospel is even better, “When Jesus heard what had happened, he withdrew BY BOAT privately to a solitary place.” (OK, I ADDED THE EMPHASIS)

Make no mistake about it. I’m not Jesus. But I do understand the call of solitary places in the early morning. These days, solitude is more important than sleep.

I don’t have any really big problems that I am sorting out. Sure I wake mulling how best to help people get along and get beyond their differences. The best way to guide our church through its capital funds process remains in the back of my mind. The season of grief, with so many funerals, weighs heavily some days. But I am an extremely fortunate person, with a wonderful marriage, a great family, and a church that I love to serve. My reason for seeking solitude is not based in a sense of discontent. I am well aware that I am among the most fortunate of the people on this planet.

It is, rather, a way of seeking balance.

Our faith - and my work - is all about relationship. My call is to build relationships within the church and relationships between the church and the people with whom we minister. I seek to provide counsel to families when relationships become strained or broken. I seek to mend broken relationships in the church when they occur. Equipped with the wonder of God’s grace and forgiveness, I have experienced the healing that is possible.

Jesus came into this world to be a part of our human sphere - to participate in the relationships. And, especially in Mark’s gospel, the stories of the intensity of his relationships leave one almost breathless. Healing, preaching, teaching, traveling. He is constantly on the go - constantly listening intently and seeking to interpret the words and traditions of our people to all who will listen.

Seeking solitude isn’t about getting away from relationship.

It is, for me, and I suspect for Jesus as well, a way of reminding myself of God’s presence - of shifting the focus away from me and my concerns to God and God’s call. Even though it is very early and the sky is dark and the boat launch is empty and the lake is free from other humans, I am not alone on the lake. The ducks and fish and geese and the deer who come down to the lake to drink all remind me that this is their space and that I am an invader - and that I am not alone.

More importantly, I am not alone in such a place where it is impossible to forget about God’s presence. As I paddle i sense the rising sun before there is anything to see. The pictures I take don’t do justice to the reality - I have to wait until there is quite a bit of light to make a picture. My camera doesn’t record images on the darkest nights. But I don’t need a camera. I don’t need anything except a paddle and the simplest of boats. These days I have been paddling a tiny solo canoe that makes it almost effortless to glide across the water. I tell people that I paddle for exercise, but there isn’t much effort in crossing the lake with this little boat. I’m probably not burning many calories.

What I am doing is giving myself time and space to listen to God. My prayers in the wee hours are rarely questions for God - or the presentation of requests or petitions. Those are valid ways of praying. But alone in a boat on the lake in the dark, my prayers don’t require words. I don’t go there to tell God anything. God knows who I am, what I need, and what my problems are.

I go to the lake to listen.

I can hear the gentle lapping of water and the nearly silent slash of the paddle entering and leaving the water. I can hear the ducks’ gossip and the nearly ceaseless complaining of the geese. I can hear the rustle in the grass and occasionally the snort and stomp of the deer. I can hear the splash of fish rising - perhaps for an insect, perhaps just to see what has disrupted the surface.

But I can’t hear the sunrise. I can’t hear the moonset. I can’t hear the dimming of the stars as the light creeps into the sky. I can’t hear the sweep of the clouds on the horizon. Without hearing, I am, nonetheless intensely aware that these things are part of my world.

God doesn’t use loud noises or dramatic signs to speak to me. Most of the time he uses the peace of the pre-dawn morning.

It is well with my soul.

That is enough to know.

Copyright © 2014 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.