Walking Wild in the Fields

This past Sunday I took a long walk in a park near my home. The path I followed was well paved and smooth. The sun shone intermittently through passing grayish winter clouds and the breeze blew in gusts of cold shrill air. I pulled the knit cap down over my ears and resolved to make at least one pass of the trail as it wound its way around the outer rim of the park. My thoughts were a mixture of prayerful intention and philosophical debate over whether or not God had a purpose for me on this day of rest. I cannot remember a specific reply, but I remember thinking that perhaps the message was woven in the images of pine trees, asphalt and tiny blades of grass standing dormant along the path.
And then it came to me through the inscription sand blasted into a landscaping stone near a park bench and bird feeder station. “I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey- work of the stars”- Walt Whitman. How insignificant I felt at the beginning of my trek now became oblivious to the fact that even a blade of grass is celebrated by our creator God. That each circuit of the earth brings new sight and greater meaning just blows my mind. And I thought I was living in a fog bank where the way is obscured and tomorrow passes without much meaning. Here, on this rock reminds me to look again and see what I did not see before, that sight is merely subjective unless you look for something else behind the image.

And so I chose to make another round about the path; to see something new the second time through. So, instead of seeing concrete and asphalt, fallen tree limbs and blades of grass peeking through remnants of melting snow, I saw a herd of deer across the road from the park and wild turkeys strutting across a barren farmer’s field. And upon another passing I found empty plastic water bottles and trash left behind to blow aimlessly in the winter breezes. A golf ball lay beside the path also and I picked it up; bouncing it upon the concrete as I walked. There really was more to this time alone than what a mere first glance might employ.

Upon a third passing I came across a gentleman out walking in the opposite direction to myself. He stopped briefly and commented on the numerous deer foraging in the field perhaps less than hundred and fifty yards from where we stood. The turkey, now silhouetted on a gentle rise in the middle of the field looked enormous and out of place. I could not help wondering how they could resist the natural instinct to stay under cover of the woods away from predators. Then, I realized, “they must know they are safe.” What a thought knowing all the cares and concerns I have had over the last few months being laid off from my job. If I could just fathom the watchful eye of God keeping me safe, then I could walk wild in the fields just as the deer and wild turkey were doing across the road. I just had to get off the path for a while and let God show the way. Amen.

Waiting for Spring

Photo: Dale Wittler

Powell’s Edge
“Oh Great Mystery”

By Powell’s edge
I whispered
“Speak to me”
And you answered
Oh Great Mystery
Not in words
Through rustling trees
Amidst a gentle blowing breeze
“Welcome”.

Speak to me
In silent blessing
Your windswept words
On sighing leaves
Proclaiming.

No towering height
Nor timbered temple
Can contain thee
Spirit within me.

Showering storm
Rolling thunder
Reason for my wonder
Oh Great Mystery.

Removed from flesh
Knowing no hunger
Only the query
Of life surrounds me
Like a cradle
From your womb
Oh Great Mystery.

We have seen such drastic changes in the weather lately here in Northwest Ohio. It makes me long for spring as I look out the window to see that the snow has melted entirely. You would be amazed at what lay beneath a pile of plowed snow. I was reminded of that yesterday as I took our dog Buddy for a walk at a nearby park. It has become a routine that I pick up trash as we walk so as to give myself motivation to exercise and to live up to the idea that we "leave this earth a little better than the way we found it." I think there is great wisdom in this phrase, especially when it comes to our relationships. If we can leave an example that is positive and lasting, then more than likely people will follow it.

I offer above a poem I wrote last summer on the Fourth of July. It says a lot about the time I set aside in prayer each day, or try to anyway. Some days it just does not help to force it, but then there are days like this that more than make up for a lapse in inspiration. And so I sit here longing for Spring and the renewed promise of a savior resurrected. God bless. Witt.

A Scouter's Keepsake

Lord,
Fill this place with treasure
As a life lived in full measure
With gifts of time and talent
Like any Cub Scout parent
Always present, always caring
In this space you will be sharing
Memories and mementos
Collected as you traveled
Down the straight and narrow path
Scouter in the aftermath
Of countless hours and years
In happiness and flowing tears
To see your boys grow ever wiser
Cheerful, courteous, and kind
Helpful, obedient, brave
Friendly, thrifty and reverent
Clean in mind and body
Always helpful
Trusting in the gifts God gave them.

And so,
Fill this space with love
As every mother knows
And ever father hopes
In every moment shared
That life is short and time goes by
But never will those ties
Be forgotten in their son’s eyes.
Amen

I offer up this prayer in reflection upon an e-mail I received this morning from one of my Cub Scout leaders. In words that I have heard before and in thoughts I have had myself so many times before; this prayer becomes strength for me as they echo in my mind. I realize how tough times are and how busy families are these days, but it is never easy to lose a part of something you have worked so hard to build up. By summer our pack will have lost two leaders and a good portion of the boys in it. Even though I realize it is another sign of the times, it makes it no easier to swallow. Even still, I feel as though I have failed as a Cub Master.

I have been doing this for at least four years now and it gets no easier dealing with the ups and downs of competing with the fast paced world and the promise of Scouting. I would not have committed myself to it if I did not fully believe that Scouting is worth the time and trouble. For the sake of my own sons' and those of other parents, I would give all I have to see them realize what becoming an Eagle Scout promises for their future. What I did not achieve as a Scout so many years ago has become a regret I will never live down because I feel as though something is missing in my life. Perhaps if I had just buckled down and not run off to do so many other things that gave little or nothing in return later in my life, perhaps I would be in far better shape personally, professionally and spiritually today. I am, however, grateful for having had the experience of being a Scout and now being able to give something back to Scouting. Please pray for all those struggling families out there who are faced with so many difficult decisions. I hope that in doing so, our prayers may keep a few more scouts actively involved and realizing their potential. Thank you. Amen.

A Walk in the Woods

Photo: Keith Wittler


I was asked recently to present a class at an annual gathering of the Black Swamp Area Council, a member of the Boy Scouts of America, University of Scouting event. The list of classes was predetermined, and having completed the Masters program, I was expected to continue on towards the Doctorate degree by presenting one of them. I chose “The Nature of Cubs: What you can learn on a nature hike.” Having had a chance to do some reading and contemplating, I would like to share some of my thoughts as I prepare for this task.

Funny, how things tend to lend themselves to whatever is going on in life. And this is no exception as I have been reading selected essays from a scholar, poet and writer by the name of Wendell Berry. He resides in Kentucky where he has been a farmer as well as a naturalist. What I have learned from him, or been so eloquently reminded, is that life is about appreciating the cyclic nature of the earth. Just as there are seasons that replenish the soil with water and nutrients for plant life to grow, we too are supplied with all our bodily needs by this process of nature. So too, we are commissioned with the care of the earth as we are creations of God who placed us here.

Our very nature is undeniably linked to the cycles of life and death as it also pertains to creation. God’s intelligent design places us in harmony with the seasons so that we can derive our every need and desire from within its boundaries. Like an island in the stream of the universe, our survival depends on the natural processes that supply the air we breathe, the food we eat by fulfilling the purpose for which we were created. And like this creation, we are the precious possessions of a god who loves us. It is his desire that we may multiply and prosper.

So, as I imagine a walk through the forest, I recognize not only my desire to enjoy nature, but also my responsibility to learn about it and preserve it for future generations. The idea is that in order to be a part of nature, we must know it by the names of the birds, the trees and plants that grow in it and by the cycles that sustain it. What we take from the earth must be put back just as nature does to sustain itself. Hopefully, in the last words of Scouting’s founder, Baden Powell, is, “That we leave this earth better than the way we found it.” But we are held to a higher call still, by the spiritual nature of our creator; to recognize his gifts and to praise him for all his wonder through the good works of our earthly selves. Our happiness and purpose fulfilled, we can live harmoniously within the realms of his creation. It is in serving that we are served, and it is in dying that we are born again. Is it any wonder that God taught us this lesson by the very earth he gave us to live on? And it is high time we start living up to our obligations. Amen.

Burnt Offerings

photo: Cindy Aquino

Burnt offerings
Second verses
Looking back on things
The way I used to be
Like match sticks in a breeze
Living so free
I never knew the causes
Haunting me
Would end up this way
In a portrait I see
More than a reflection
A second chance to be
An image of the Father.


As I look out the window of my den this morning, I see brilliant sunlight reflected off the surface of what has become a foot or two of snow. The hazy blue sky stretches to the east and crystal clear to the west for miles. It is only the end of January here in the Northwest corner of Ohio, but it feels like we have had a whole winter’s worth of snow already. Finally, a quiet moment of reflection as our dog Buddy lays curled up on the love seat sound asleep. I sometimes wonder what he dreams of as he frequently opens his eyes just a bit as if to check on me; making sure I am still near by I suppose.

If you are wondering where the poem above came from; well, I’ll tell you. I have wanted for a long time to put together a collection of devotional poems and pictures to illustrate their meaning. Like the little booklets I get in the mail every now and then from Silesian Missions, I have come to appreciate the inspiration of words and how they can encourage, comfort and relate to our every day lives. Whether the theme is about coping with grief, celebrating a season, or about the ordinary occurrences in life that cause us to think; like the site of a newborn child, or the first green emergence of tulips in a flower garden.

It is my dream to touch the soul of people and to let them know that life is about more than the struggles or fast paced race to compete for a place in the food chain. Burnt Offerings came to me through a photograph that started out as a project my sister Cindy had done for her photo shop class. From the moment I first saw the grouping of images in the photo, I knew there was something I could write about it. And what could that be, you ask? Well, the image of a match stick crucifix first caused a stir in me about how we can all make amends for all the times in our lives when we were younger and so care free that it didn’t matter what we did to harm ourselves or others.

I thought of all the times when I abused alcohol or experimented with substances that could have led to my going to jail or ending up in a hospital or even dead. Afterwards, it seemed like all it took was to sleep off the hang over and bury the guilt somewhere deep inside myself. As I got older, the guilt became too much of a burden because I had never forgiven myself or allowed God to forgive me for having jeopardized my body and soul. I had never fully appreciated the fact that there was good in me and that I was placed here on earth to serve rather than waste the precious little time I had. A human lifetime is but a mere flicker on the horizon of planet earth and I had to take responsibility for my own actions if there was to be any real meaning in my life.

And so I construct my own cross of burnt offerings. Like the match sticks that represent the frailty and care free attitude I once carried around in my younger days, I offer them as a testimony of the second chances we so often get in life to do the right thing. Like the mother who rejects her unborn child and later regrets it out of personal guilt, let these burnt offerings begin the process of healing once again. For all those times we have done wrong to ourselves or others, let the cross we bear become a symbol of salvation Amen.

A Lion in the Crowd

You could not see him
lying as if in tall grass,
waiting for a meal to wonder by,
for he kept silent,
grooming his great mane
with a pink enormous tongue;
baring teeth as sharp as spear points;
A lion in the crowd.

He made only a low and rumbling sound
as if to say, “never mind me,
though if close you come I shall pounce.”
And understanding this decree,
all the other beasts
of the jungle stayed clear
not to tempt him,
The lion in the crowd.

One day a little boy did venture
out among the wilds away from town;
Not realizing who might be waiting,
and came upon the sleeping king
so humbled among the tall dry grass.
But cunning as he was,
The beast made no attempt,
To fell the boy he found.

For there was something wrong that day
to subdue the pangs of hunger
inside the belly of the beast lying so still.
It was a thorn deep embedded
within the mighty paw
of the king so proud,
but you would not hear him holler loud
The lion in the crowd.

The little boy sensed his anguish
and pulled back the weeds so tall,
exposing a timid hulk in quiet tears
licking his wound of silent years.
“What can I do to ease your fears,
oh great king among the fields?”
said the boy in his still small voice,
to the lion in the crowd.

“Remove this thorn and you shall go
unharmed among the valley of my throne,”
said the great beast in all his pain.
So the little boy reached in
to where the mighty king lay,
and with his tiny fingers
plucked the thorn from
the lions aching limb.

Overjoyed at what he could not do,
and no longer suffering in pain
the lion agreed to let the boy pass unharmed;
just as he had promised.
And from that day on
there was no fear in him
or doubt in that small child;
for he had helped the lion in the crowd.

And so take heed and listen,
my son who trembles and pouts.
Remember the lesson of the story.
Where unseen perils lie amongst the tall dry grass,
there is per chance an opportunity to face and conquer,
even the fiercest of beasts you may have found,
lurking before your path;
even a lion in the crowd.

You may ask yourself what the point of the story was, or that it was perhaps stolen from an old children's fable; and you would be responding like any other reader who happened by. I, for one, have modified the story to fit within the confines of my own life story. The lion, like my father, has always been a quiet sullen figure who often falls asleep in his recliner and grumbles as the kids come running through the house when we come for a visit.

When I was a kid, it was the neighborhood joke that when Dad yelled, you had better run and hide or he might just kick you through a wall. But what I found over the years was that my Dad had a huge soft spot whenever one of us kids got hurt and he couldn't do anything to make us feel better. And when he had his bypass a few years ago, we all got to see just how sentimental and gentle he could be. Thus, the lion in the crowd becomes the one who needs tending, and the boy becomes the source of healing. I can only hope that in some small way I can be of some comfort to my Dad who worked so hard for me so that I could be the person I am today.

Off the Highway, Onto the Path

As I sit here this morning considering the challenges and opportunities of the day, I can’t help apologizing for the lost words from the past couple of days. My well intentioned resolution to put down at least five hundred words a day went sadly by the highway and onto the stray path. Remembering what the writer said, “You can never go home again,” resonates in my mind as the words fade from the pages of Wendell Berry’s Recollected Essays: 1965-1980. Now, I find myself lost in the back country of Kentucky in the year 1797 where the writings of a Methodist minister have drawn me into the land lost to civilization and progress. “They knew but little…” (Rev. Jacob Young) And so I add this from my own understanding; “For theirs and other men’s conveyance they sought to the destruction of the land in the name of progress.”

There is something tragic about losing time, yet realizing how life flows on like a river offers some consolation in knowing it is near impossible to fill every moment with meaning. Sometimes it is just better to be out and about rather than focusing on perspective and sentiment. This is where I find myself at odds this morning. The fog outside on the north end of town and the sleepy eyes of boys will soon take me away from this space, so I carry on in earnest. Capturing the true essence of the moment may have to wait for later as I save this last morsel of inspiration…

In keeping with the train of thought from yesterday, I hate to borrow yet another passage, but I feel a kinship with Wendell Berry that cannot be overlooked.

And I say to myself: here is your road
without beginning or end, appearing out of the earth and ending in it, bearing
no load but the hawk’s kill, and the leaves
building earth on it, something more
to be borne. Tracks fill with earth
and return to absence. The road was worn
by men bearing earth along it. They have come
to endlessness. In their passing
they could not stay in, trees have risen
and stand still. It is leading to the dark,
to mornings where you are not. Here
is your road, beginningless and endless as God.

-Wendell Berry-

Now, from my own recollections, I add these revisions of sentiment from the path of years gone by.





River Cathedral

Trickling water
Greenish brown stream
Fallen timbers
Along a sloping scheme.

Canopy of spring
Enshrouds the scene
Bird song calls
Off earthen walls;
River cathedral.

Silence speaks
My soul peaks
While mosquitoes swarm
In spiritual form;
Innocence that sleeps.

Visitors weep
While orphans dream
beside the river so serene
A prayerful intention
Left in stone,
But never alone;
These guardian angels.

-D.A. Wittler 2007-


Yuletide Legacy


On a cold December night
As the stars shine bright
Windowed faces of log houses
Flicker in candle light.

Warm quaint spaces
Crackling fire places
Kettles cooling beside once busy hearths
Shadowed now in evening shade.

In a time long forgot
People settle in their cots
While snow drifts gather
Ever higher along a man-made river.

Paths between cleared fields
Scarred by wagon wheel trenches
Now covered in utter white perfection
Stretch a lonely mile in starlight.

Forest branches creaking restless
Weight of ice and arctic breezes
Bring dormant trees to life
In clues of seasons past.

Doe and yearling forage
For a meal made scarce
Steaming breath releasing
A drink of water from a thin veiled stream.

Everywhere, darkness lingers
Stilled by a shining celestial body
Gleaming high above in an eastern sky
While immigrant farmers dream a yuletide scene.

A story told since youth
Son of God born a humble birth
In a land of palm fronds and sand
A king of heaven on earth.

Simple men tending their flocks
Wise men stirring from their dreams
Flee to a simple manger in Bethlehem
To see a Savior who would be king.

Now, looking back upon tradition
Christians telling in succession
This same story passing generations
As our founding is self evident
Remains for us a destiny
An American yuletide legacy.

-D.A. Wittler- revised 12/08