Nature, the Presence of God

I have recently been reflecting on Our Lord, and have focused on Him more. Funny how problems will help you do that. Just realizing (finally) that I really can no longer help myself. Actually, that I never was able to and I just need to rely totally and completely on him. But now, I've been seeing more and more that every time I turn around, He is there. In a new bud on a tree, the sunlight sparkling off the buckle on my pack, the spray of dogwood flowers in a drab little store downtown, in a kind word. He is there. Everywhere. Wanting to be seen, yet passed by by so many. How could I not have seen Him before?! Even now as I type, I look down at my hands and notice each marking, each freckle and realize that they more than the crucifix ring I wear speak of the glory and the wonder of God. I am fearfully and wonderfully made, and really have no reason to focus on my imperfections or those of the world around me, for the perfections are there. They are simple, and as such do not scream out for attention but wait patiently, as my Lord waits, to be notice and loved for themselves and not for the works they do.

Sacred Heart of Jesus, burning with love for me, inflame my cold heart with love for Thee.

I find that more and more, I am drawn to nature and feel close to my Lord and my Lady ("Nature's Solitary Boast") when I am surrounded or in touch somehow with creation. This poem is one of the favorites from my high school years, and speaks volumes on this sentiment, that nature is somehow alive with the life and love of God.

The Ballad of the Trees and the Master
Into the woods my Master went,
Clean forspent, forspent.
Into the woods my Master came,
Forspent with love and shame.
But the olives they were not blind to Him,
The little gray leaves were kind to Him:
The thorn-tree had a mind to Him
When into the woods He came.

Out of the woods my Master went,
And He was well content.
Out of the woods my Master came,
Content with death and shame.
When Death and Shame would woo Him last,
From under the trees they drew Him last:
'Twas on a tree they slew Him -- last
When out of the woods He came.
~Sidney Lanier