He makes springs pour water into the ravine; it flows between the mountains….The birds of the air nest by the waters; they sing among the branches.. —Psalm 104:12
Introduction to the translation: I’ve recently decided to try to keep up my blog in English as well, translating/adapting things that come to expression first in Portuguese. This time I almost quit in the middle because of technical difficulties. First of all, I am frustrated because Portuguese has two words for “birds” for which I cannot find the exact equivalent. Aves are big birds—the ones that squawk, screech, shriek, cluck or hoot. Pássaros are little birds—the ones that usually sing. And passarinhos are birdies but it is a less “condescending” word (not used only to talk to children).
Secondly, my meditation is based on the text I was reading in Portuguese in a version called Almeida Revista e Atualizada. Having decided to use the NIV in English, it was rather disconcerting to find somewhat of a different wording here and there—not necessarily leading to a different significance but not clear enough to allow for an understanding of my train of thought at the moment. So I had to make a literal rendering at one point. The translation of the original post follows (the photos were taken at the retreat center):
It’s a weekend, close to the end of October. I am participating in a spiritual retreat for seminary student wives near Campos do Jordão—a town in the state of São Paulo, Brazil (three hours’ drive from where I live in the city of São Paulo). We are five coordinators (wives of seminary professors/pastors/church leaders), together with eight young women. In the program that has been distributed, the two mornings begin with an individual “quiet time”. All are encouraged to find a spot outside the house in order to spend half an hour in God’s presence, reading the Bible and praying.
Being one of the coordinators of the event, I share the duty of preparing breakfast for the group with a friend and thus cannot enjoy this blessing during the rush of Saturday, the first day. On Sunday, however, I grab my Bible and a notebook and go out of the house, finding myself a spot in the middle of the attractions of nature.
The sun is shining and its rays enhance the coloring of the flowers that surround me. Light and shadow alternate in the swaying of the araucaria evergreens and other trees (both tropical and deciduous) that cover the hills around me—resulting in a gentle shimmer and ripple effect on the green of their leaves and branches.
I sit quietly, with my eyes closed, trying to calm my spirit, because my mind is already wanting to get busy with the details of the day—planning, anticipating, foreseeing, avoiding… Cleaning, supervising, packing up, driving down the mountain back to São Paulo…
A light breeze tries to play with my hair, and I perceive that it is a small-scale version of the wind that I hear rustling and shaking the branches in the scene described above.
I think about the wind. Even if I would have my eyes open, I still would not be able to see it. I would only see its effects. With my eyes closed, I can feel and hear the impact that it is having on everything that it blows past or through. I remember the Lord Jesus speaking with Nicodemus— You should not be surprised at my saying, ‘You must be born again.’ The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit. (John 3.8). And I think—“I’m a person born of the Spirit.” But before I delve further into this mystery, the wind hushes, the breeze ceases and what is left is silence.
Such silence! For someone who lives beside a major avenue in São Paulo, the moments without noise caused by human beings are extremely rare, almost nonexistent. It is impossible to flee from the grinding of machines and motors, accompanied by sirens, honking and sudden braking. Not even at night does one escape, because it is the time when deliveries are made, trash is collected, streets and stoplights are repaired, and the underground tubes and ducts of the power, water, communications and gas systems are placed or overhauled.
The sound of people’s voices also rarely disappears, coming up and echoing from the sidewalks and the 24-hour drugstore and supermarket across the street, or from the buildings that surround our own. Voices of passersby, shoppers, workers and apartment-dwellers, and their televisions, day and night, near and far…. Talking, arguing, laughing, playing, shouting… Sometimes, fighting or crying… Here and there, a dog barking… I hardly notice this anymore. It’s part of my day-to-day life. But it’s quite possible that it somehow affects my ability to feel peace, tranquility, and serenity while there…
For these reasons, the silence of nature on this day is very impressive. But then, in just a short while, I realize that it, in fact, is not made up of the absence of sounds. It is constituted by the lack of noise created by humans through their mechanical devices and voices.
A repetitive sound, like a little lament, takes my mind away from its pondering about wind, the Holy Spirit and silence. What could it be? My mind delves back into my youthful memories and I know what it is. It’s a pigeon…. I open my eyes and check out the roof and the protuberances of the Swiss-style house. I search for it in the trees nearby. But it is well hidden. And while I scrutinize each possible nook and cranny above me, my hearing also becomes more acute.
I close my eyes once more. I start to perceive that the pigeon is not the only being there. After all, the forests and trees around me are inhabited by more of God’s creatures. Insects. Animals. Big birds. Little birds. The songbirds that also warble and sing in my city but that so few can actually hear.
Now I am managing to tune in to the song of dozens of birds around me. Suddenly God allows me to hear their melodies. Melodies so complex that I am incapable of reproducing them. So beautiful that I suddenly long to move forever to that place. And never leave again. I know that I am experiencing a small rerun of what Eden must have been like. And, at the same time, getting a glimpse of the delights of heaven.
Then I hear the strident screeches and cries of bigger birds—of parakeets, parrots and crows, of the geese on the lake down the hill…. The melody has disappeared. Now it’s cacophony! And I ask myself—was it like this in Eden too? Was there this apparent dissonance? Or were their voices mellower and less intrusive? Still distinct and strong, but harmonizing with the song of the smaller ones? Or could it be that the listening skills of Adam and Eve allowed them to discern musical qualities that may be imperceptible to post-fall human beings? Or made it so that they did not distinguish sounds as irritating? Or maybe their perfect minds blended their perception of the visible with the audible in such a way that the beauty of one aspect balanced out the strangeness of another detail. What changed with the expulsion from Eden? But at least God left some species with their exotic plumage while he did not withdraw the melodious voices of others….
The bigger birds nearby silence. They must have flown somewhere else. And the person or being that was disturbing the geese must also have moved on. Once again, the smaller birds start to sing. I remain quiet, eyes still closed, resting in the presence of my God. If I’m not careful, I’ll fall asleep, as if myself nestled within celestial arms in this rare climate of peace, harmony and adoration. It occurs to me that there is a verse that says something about God holding his everlasting arms under his beloved.
I open my eyes and pick up my Bible. I look up “arms” in my concordance and find what I want. “The eternal God is your dwelling place, and underneath are the everlasting arms”. –Deuteronomy 33:27. (the NIV says refuge—my Portuguese says habitation as does a number of English versions as well. Both apply to the concept of a safe place—what a home should be.)
Since my Bible is open, I decide to locate another text. For there is a musical composition written by a Brazilian musician called João Alexandre playing in my head and I know that the words are a paraphrase of Scripture. It also cites the habitation (dwelling place) of God and speaks of two types of birds (the wren and the sparrow). I soon find what I want—it is Psalm 84, a Psalm of the Sons of Korah.
I read: … My soul yearns, even faints, for the courts of the LORD; my heart and my flesh cry out for the living God. Even the sparrow has found a home, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may have her young. A place near your altar, O Lord Almighty, my King and my God! Blessed are those who dwell in your house; they are ever praising you (verses 2 to 4).
After reflecting for a while about how to apply the text to my days (because I do not live in the place that now substitutes the courts and the altars cited in the Psalm—the church), I decide to read the whole chapter. Verse six seems to jump off the page and it is with it that I conclude my meditation.
The Psalmists speak of the person whose strength is derived from God and make a surprising declaration—who (and this is what it says in Portuguese), when passing through the dry valley, makes it a place of springs (o qual passando pelo vale árido, faz dele um manancial). I stop to think about this. Normally, we want God to show us His goodness by providing relief (water) in difficult times. We rarely go beyond this point. The text would then say—who, when passing through the dry valley, will find a place of springs (or a well) for his refreshment. But it doesn’t.
I perceive that God’s project for His children (and for me) is much greater. While I am a pilgrim on this earth, the dry valleys (in the footnote it says that the term, also translatable as the valley of Baca, can also be translated as a place of tears or desolation) will always exist. I will face disappointments, losses, illnesses, pain, deaths… And it is at these times that I can actually be a place of springs—a well where others should be able to go to “quench their thirst”—as they share in the comfort, encouragement, support, consolation and love that I myself have found in the presence of God.
Again I close my eyes, absorbing the beautiful birdsongs for the last time. “Father,” I think/pray: “I know that you look after me in the same way that you look after the birds that gave me so much joy today. I really want to be a woman ‘whose strength is in you.’ I want to go ‘from strength to strength’—from one moment in your presence (like this one) to the next. Always treasuring the time spent in your dwelling place, in the reading of your Word, in moments conversing with you. Not only to be ‘blessed’ myself, but so that I may be a ‘place of springs’ that blesses others. ‘Oh, hear my prayer, Lord God Almighty.’” (verses 5, 7, 12, 8).
It’s time to go back into the house and take up my obligations and commitments. I continue being a weak and imperfect woman but I know from where to derive “strength” when I need it. I am the daughter of the “Lord God Almighty” and, one day, will appear “before God in Zion” (vs. 7). There, I am sure, big birds and little birds will sing together—soft and harmonious melodies—as only one of millions of demonstrations of the greatness of the God that created them and that adopted me as His daughter when I believed in the Lord Jesus as my Saviour.
To Him be all the glory. Amen. Betty