In the Hoot of an Owl

I originally wrote this piece in the Fall of 1994 but never published it until now, in February of 2022 ~Michael

For we shall surely die and are like water spilled on the ground which cannot be gathered up again. Yet God does not take away life, but plans ways so that the banished one may not be cast out from him. (2 Sam 14:14 NASB)

I was walking along my favorite road, a lonely dirt-surfaced lane unwinding itself over a six mile up-the-hill-now-down-again course. It’s a place I sometimes go to be with God. Cradled in a hollow and watched over by thickly wooded hills on either side, the road keeps company with a small but perky little stream whose cataracts of water cascade with ever changing whimsy in accordance with the rainfall of the season. The road is but a few short miles from home. Upon my arrival, I simply turn my car onto a welcoming shoulder and set out for anywhere between an hour to three hours walk.

Most of the time, I spend the first few minutes in silence, gently soaking up the peacefulness of the surroundings, enjoying the melody offered by the playful stream’s gurgles and wind’s sighing in the treetops. The sky today offered a robin’s egg blue for her wrap allowing the sun’s rays clear passage to give what little warmth they might to a mid-November afternoon. Gladness and admiration was taking shape in my spirit for the God who had created all this abounding beauty. It was the familiar start of worship.

​Reaching into the pocket of my coat, I withdrew a wrinkled sheet of paper now so much a part of my ritual. For a while, I just held the paper loosely in my hand at my side as I continued up the road, saying out loud the words of the sixth and seventh chapters of Paul’s letter to the Romans. Words inspired by the Spirit of God influencing Paul’s heart and mind. Words meant not only for the believers in Rome so long ago but also for us today. Precious words. Words that after hour upon countless hour I had labored to memorize. In the toiling, I knew there was rooting in my heart the promises of God. His Word cleansing me. Making me whole. Setting me free.

In the hard work of tracing along the veins of Paul’s apologetics and hiding scripture in one’s heart, sanctification was becoming more to me than a mere religious expression. It was happening in me at a pace and in a manner I hadn’t known before. I regret waiting ten years to get serious about memorizing large portions of the Bible. For in so doing, one embarks along an avenue that seems to lead straight to God’s front door.

​It had taken since July to absorb chapters six and seven. I had been eagerly waiting for today’s entrance into the wonder of chapter eight. Who couldn’t relate to Paul’s apt description of the war between the mind and the flesh? The Law had played its intended part beautifully in my life that June day back in ‘84. It had driven me, then 31, in desperation to Jesus for refuge and forgiveness. Jesus, my Savior, who had promised to save me from my sins and was now showing me, during each journey on this lonely dirt road, the significance and importance of abiding in Him.

In Christ, there was now no condemnation. God and I were friends. I was his child. Jesus my Elder Brother and Lord. Life in him who came in the flesh of humanity and took upon himself our condemning sin had set me free from the law of sin and death. What the Law couldn’t do, what I could never do on my own, God had done for me while I was helpless, in order that the Law’s demands might be fulfilled in me — who had died along with Christ by faith — that I might live with him as well.

Four more precious, wonderful, life-bearing, freedom-bringing verses were being rooted in the fertile soil of my soul. Formerly separated from God by my sin, God had condemned sin in the flesh through the crucifixion of the Son. His raising to life again, the utter defeat of Death, his ascension into heaven to be seated at the right hand of the Father had provided for me, the banished one by sin’s design, a way back home. The unwinding of the curse.

Nearly two hours had gone by and I was on the return leg of my afternoon’s journey. Just down the road a ways, my waiting car would appear as soon as I came around the next bend.

Suddenly, from somewhere up the side hill to my right, an owl lifted his voice, arresting my steps. My ears straining to catch the wonder of that not-too-often heard song. Silence alone greeted my statue-like pose. It was as if the surrounding woods had been on a walk as well and now mimicked my lack of movement with a pervasive quiet of their own.

I found myself asking God if He wouldn’t cause the owl to hoot again, just for me. I thought perhaps it was presumptuous and silly to ask for such a thing, but I knew I wasn’t asking for any other reason than sheer delight in the music of a creature my Lord had made. I wanted to behold with as many of my senses as I may, my Master’s creative glory. I felt an encouragement to ask in Jesus’ own name. Not out loud but in my heart. In secret. Where only the One who knows all secrets hears.

At the very moment of my asking, the clear call of the owl again lofted through the pristine air to grace my ears and stir my wondering faith. I was thrilled and awed by the loving gift my God had spread before me!

I thought of how I would share this with the men I meet with each week in the fellowship of which I’m a part. How I would relate to them the encouragement I felt by this physical manifestation of the presence of the Lord who is the Spirit.

​I paused in my thinking. What if it were mere coincidence?

​True, I had waited some time and had not heard a sound until the very moment of asking in Jesus’ name. But maybe that was just how it had worked out. It made a good tale and had encouraged me, but perhaps I was preparing to make more out of it than I should.

I felt again a singular urging to press on with my real concern, the paramount question in my heart — was God truly with me in this place? I asked God to bear patiently with me. I telling him how much I wanted to understand what he was showing me, teaching me.

I was praying quickly now, hoping to get to the point I was trying to make before the owl hooted again on his own. (Aren’t we amazingly foolish?) It dawned on me that the One who held all creatures’ hearts in his hands could make an owl still as well as burst forth into song and I slowed my mind’s anxious pace. I gained the assurance that he understood my sincerity. This was no presumptuous test of God by an insignificant man. This was the Father gently teaching his child that he is. That he can be known by those who believe in him. That he is a rewarder of those who diligently seek him. That he was the author of every wonderful, breath-taking joy that had come my way in learning scripture hour by hour in our walks together along the road. That Jesus loves even me!

I held my breath when the moment in time arrived that I asked once more, in the silence of my heart, with all the hope of a trusting child.

​One time more, one ever-so-special, soul-stirring time more, the owl I could not see cried out to the glory of God!

Falling to my knees amidst an altar of brown leaves adorning the surface of God’s earth, I wept with the fear and joy that can only be known by the once banished outcast, ever traveling in this world back home to the Father, through the incredible love of God in Christ Jesus, our Lord.

© Michael Kimball 1994  (This writing may be freely shared in its entirety without prior permission from the author.)