NEW: The forest is my church

Dear Readers: Im excited about this new poem, although I still feel there is much to work on as it seems long and too preachy now... I would love to get your commentary and input....Judy

The Forest is my Church

Even the most avid of destination hikers know,
as do those of us who meander off the trails
seeking nothing in particular;
the beauty of the forest can reach out and grab you
anytime, anywhere.

Why save communion for Sundays in church?
Why walk through the woods as if you were God’s gift to the world?

Seek and you will find,
Knock and the door will open,
Ask and it shall be given…

Walk into the forest with humility,
asking for entrance,
knocking with respect.
You will find what you are seeking,
the way will open,
it shall be given.

In the forest, nothing is held back
waiting for better behavior,
waiting for proper attire,
waiting for the secret membership prayer.

There is no address to seek, no special hour to arrive.
The way inside has always been open
to those who have eyes to see, and ears to hear.

Does the forest call to you to worship?
Do the trees preach and the creeks sing the psalms?
Do the ferns and flowers take up an offering
welcoming your very gaze as your tithe?

I was a Hospice chaplain once,
and many would claim, as my father would,
“The woods is my church!”
speaking their truth while dismissing me.

In the telling of their tales
of wandering and beauty,
their eyes would glaze over and we would both know:

All would be well.
Death is just another part of the cycle of life.

There comes a time when the tree,
giving up the season of green,
surrenders to the time of silver;
no longer drawing up the nourishment of the earth,
no longer mixing sunlight and water into boughs of green.
Silver snag now serving the forest community
communion,
offering up its life, integrating the holy message
for all to hear, and see.
Still part of the story, still part of the vitality of life
even when its bark finally blends into the forest floor.

We know, don’t we
who wander in the woods.
We know about timeless, ever changing cycles.
We know about the unconditional nature of the wind and sun.
We know there is nothing to be forgiven.
Life goes on,
even for the charred stumps of the trees
cut down in their prime by the forest thinning crews,
even for the tiny voles whose homes are crushed
by my careful or careless steps
Life goes on. Grace is freely given.

So whether we tuck these gifts of grace into the back side of our hearts,
or write poems to preach to the choir,
grace is a given
for those who fall down upon their knees to scramble under a log;
for those who get chills shivering down their spine
when the message on the wind pierces any attempt to cover-up,
for those who walk out alive
having survived all their fears and grown strong in the effort.

The forest is my church.
I can meet the Holy there,
any time I am ready, anytime I am willing.
Come, worship life with me.
Lace up your boots. Lets go.