Again, to the Pond

The sun dips behind a wall of trees, signaling fifteen minutes to visit the pond before the mosquitoes do.

I walk downhill, cross a bridge that covers a drainage pipe, then skirt the winding road. The grassy shoulder becomes gravel, then concrete. A path lining a stream of runoff water.

I follow and listen. The stream gurgles past reeds and neatly placed boulders, then the water funnels into a pond.

A place renewing chaos into order. Waste reclaimed for beauty.

And here, you can expect a handful of creatures to appear.

There’s a heron flying overhead. She circles, determining where to fish.

Tree trunks clipped show the sign of a beaver. He piles his findings into a home, establishing the landscape.

Prairie grasses like milkweed and coneflower wave in the breeze. They flourish for butterflies to perch and feast.

Soon mosquitoes will hijack contemplation. Yet, for a minute, I’ll stay, glued to a world that spins in slowness.

The glassy pond erupts as the heron ascends from a wall of cattails by the shore. She settles in a dead elm whose branches and trunk are covered by vines. You almost wouldn’t realize the tree is not living. Vines encircle it so entirely, granting the tree new life—or the ability to sustain life at the pond.

An oriole swoops from the elm and lands in a short oak grouped near other young oaks the city planted to order a habitat. The oaks have broad, glossy lime-green leaves and underneath are three benches.

A bat breaks into the canvas of the sky. Its light now dims to purples and pinks.

I won’t stay. The mosquitoes deter me, but I may visit next when the late morning sun warms those shiny oak leaves. The road will be quiet, and the orioles and red-winged blackbirds will sing as the pond brims with life.

Life reclaimed. Once considered waste, a pond pools like a picture of the Creator’s deeper work, at times, invisible to me.

What do you see when a slow, fifteen minutes are yours to keep?  

Every time I visit the pond, the unlikely lures as small mercies display the order God infuses into what once appeared chaotic.

When considering the larger story of history—God’s plan from the beginning for Jesus to dwell with people—structure and meaning do sprout from even that which appears wasted and wrecked.

For me, the pond reflects this story. Of renewal, of wastewater being gathered and restored into a place where life thrives. Where a dead tree with vines shelters the birds. A place that reminds me of God’s active goodness and of the goodness yet to come (Revelation 21:5).

Photo taken by my husband, Mark Friesen.

Psalm 68:9-10, “Rain in abundance, O God, you shed abroad; you restored your inheritance as it languished; your flock found a dwelling in it; in your goodness, O God, you provided for the needy" (ESV).