The heron just suddenly appeared on the edge of the water, right next to the crumbling concrete boat ramp by the dam, obviously looking for fish, I surmised.
He stood on the gravel, as if anticipating the feel of bone-chilling cold water, deep in winter. He just stood there like a beautiful molded bronze sculpture in this section of the river. Not moving at all. But his eyes were roving, not missing a thing. He knew I was there. He saw those men who were fishing away off, up to their waists in their voluminous waders. Nothing went unnoticed.
He maintained his strategic position for a very long time. And then, slowly and silently, he entered into the shallows. He was neither reluctant nor shy. He knew exactly what he was doing.
Once again, he just stood there, motionless. He was certainly not in a rush. He didn't seem to care if he caught anything at all. Or, at least, that is how it appeared.
I sat a little further back, alongside the boat ramp, my small camp chair nestled in the gravel, the sky so blue, the radiance of the sun warming my legs, bathed in the music of the spheres, watching my husband not catching fish on this incredibly mild February afternoon. I'm not sure he cared. Nor did I.
We were caught up in the awe of the Creation as if we had front-row seats. It only appeared on the outside of things that we were not doing anything productive at all. But time is not measured by what is accomplished -- but, of course, all kinds of other making are constantly going on, mostly profound, mostly of which we are unaware. "Nothing is for naught," my grandmother always noted. I used to wonder where she got so much joy in the every day stuff of life, even as she shuffled around on her arthritic legs. Nothing went unnoticed.
The late afternoon sun filtered through the bare trees. The heron stood in the silent shallow waters, fully cognizant of the awe around him.
I had a backpack with me, full of work to be done. There was so much I needed to do yesterday. But this scene before me unfolded into the most needful of all.
Be still. Whether I am waiting in line, or in a waiting room, or waiting for the water to boil, to not waste that precious time, but to sit, stand, breathe a little deeper, and be still. The Lord our God has woven His glory even into familiar moments and His greatness into our days. Waiting is not always about a gap when something is about to happen. Not a pause, but a continual revealing.
Being still and knowing His Presence, even in the unexpected, even in what only appears as ordinary, sitting on a boat ramp by the dam, not a fish in sight, a magnificent bird waiting with me.
He makes me lie down in green pastures.
He leads me beside still waters.
Psalm 23. 2
There is a deep purpose in that. Watch for Me. Watch with Me.
"So what did you do today?" someone asked me.
Far more than I expected.
God multiplies.
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