Muted
hues of dawn light filtered through the rectangular windows of the caravan. I
sat up in bed to peer through the dusty glass. The interior of the bush garage
that housed our camping abode was scarcely visible in the soft daybreak. I scanned
the garage ceiling to check if our resident bat, Bruce Wayne, had survived the
night. He swung off his steel rafter, no doubt feeling satisfied after feasting
on the insect smorgasbord that swirled around our many solar lights every
night.
The
garage window made the perfect frame for the view of the bush and gully beyond
our camp. I rubbed my eyes to focus on the pair of local kookaburras living on
our hill. One bird fluffed its feathers as it perched on a gum tree branch,
tilting its head from side to side in an effort to see around its long beak as
it searched the ground for breakfast.
The
second kookaburra lifted its head high and let out a great laughing cry. The
first followed, and they chorused a laughing song. These birds amaze me. They know
the exact moment a new day will break and the exact moment the day fades into
evening. They herald both times with great gusto, megaphoning laughing echoes
into the air. I imagined them singing, ‘Here comes the day, get out of bed, a
new day is here.’ And then at dusk, ‘Night is coming. The day is gone. Sleep is
here.’
The
enthusiasm these birds show for each new day made me think about all the times
I have literally dragged myself out of bed, complaining. Complaining about
still being tired, about not getting enough sleep, and about how much I have to
do. This morning, I fell back against my pillow, listening to my feathered neighbours
heralding the new day, and tried to recall the last time dawn had delighted me
so much I had broken out into song. I couldn’t recall a recent early morning
spontaneous outburst of joy.
Nor
could I remember an instance when I had rejoiced at having seen through a day.
There were times I had sat at the end of a busy day, content in what I had
achieved. But, unlike the kookaburras, I hadn’t rejoiced over the day, or paid such
vocal homage to a cycle of sunlight.
I
snuggled under the covers, and became transfixed by an exquisite Granny’s Cloak
Moth fluttering from wall to wall, looking for a place to land. The brown eyes
on its wings winked at me as it chose a comfortable resting place. I closed my
eyes and listened to the wind as it roared up the gully. Tree tops rustled,
then shook, as the driving gust moved through the bush. It sounded like a
distant freight train getting closer and closer, until the unseen force was
upon the camp causing the tin to rattle and the eucalyptus trees to drop dry twigs
on the tin roof. The freight train of wind moved on, creating havoc in the
foliage further up the hill, and then disappeared over the mountain top. I
smiled as I thought about the way my entire world was heralding the day.
As
put my feet on the floor, I hummed, ‘This is the day that the Lord has made.’ I thought about my place in the world, and how
separated—or removed—I often feel. When I am home in my town house, I barely
notice my natural environment. I knew nature was there. I saw and heard various
animals on occasion, but it is hard to distinguish the kookaburra calls over
the clatter of household appliances, the neighbour’s stereo, and the traffic on
our busy road.
At
home, I don’t awaken to nature’s heralding call, but to the scream of an alarm.
There are no winking moths, no resident bats, and no local animals calling to
say good morning. The soft early light doesn’t pat me awake. Instead, I often
woke to the sun piercing through a slit in my blind. Nature is there—outside—but
I’m not nearly as aware of it as I am at our camp. My town environment doesn’t seem
to love me like my bush environment does.
All
these morning events and contemplations drew me to a fabulous conclusion. I am a
part of an astounding creation, and I don’t make the most of it. I thanked the
Lord for our camp, far away from the sounds of humanity. Through its seclusion
I had discovered what I was missing.
I thought about this Bible verse from Luke
5:16:
‘But Jesus Himself would
often slip away to the wilderness and pray.’
(New American Standard Bible)
I
am certain that our Lord knew the value of the awesome creation we live in.
Locked away in our houses, streets, towns and cities, it is easy to forget we
are part of a much bigger picture. It is easy to overlook the bond we share
with the natural world. Beyond us are innumerable creatures, plants and
elements who all herald each day. I challenge you, dear reader, to slip away to
your local wilderness sometime soon, and find your own way to herald the day.
First seen in Book Fun Magazine:
Rose
was born in North Queensland, Australia. Her childhood experiences growing up
in a small beach community would later provide inspiration for her Resolution
series.
Two
of the three Resolution novels have won Australian CALEB awards. She has also
released The Greenfield Legacy, a collaborative novel highlighting the pain of
Australia’s past policy of forced adoption, as well as standalone novel, Ehvah
After. Her most recent release is the novella, A Christmas Resolution.
Her
novels are inspired by the love of her coastal home and her desire to produce
stories that point readers to Jesus. Rose holds a Bachelor of Arts degree, and
resides in Mackay, North Queensland with her husband and son.
Visit Rose at: https://rosedee.com/
