Editorial December 5, 1994 Issue

Morning prayer

Barbara M. Vining

Our family spent summer vacations at a family camp north of Ely, Minnesota. It was situated on a large lake set in the wildlife-protected forests on the edge of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area between the United States and Canada. One of the very special aspects of this beautiful wilderness area is the low level of human-generated noise, thanks to rules such as the one prohibiting high-speed motors on the lakes. But, of course, the quietest time of all is before dawn.

One of my favorite activities was to rise quietly while everyone else was sleeping, slip out of the cabin, walk up the path among the pines and birches, and sit on a rocky ledge overlooking the lake—to pray, and to watch the day break.

The atmosphere was exquisite with stillness. Nothing moved. Every leaf and every creature was perfectly quiet. The lake's surface had not a single ripple. Then, ever so gradually and gently—as the light began to dawn—the air would begin to stir, leaves would begin to rustle, creatures would begin their day's activity and communications, the lake's surface would yield to the breeze, and the water would begin to lap against the rocky shore.

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