God Speaks Through “Place”

My friend wrote about driving past a certain side road on his way home from the beach. A powerful feeling emerged. That particular road held strong emotional history for him. Still, he went on his way. What kept him from turning down that memory-laden lane?

The Beatles wrote about relationship with “places.”

“There are places I remember all my life, though some have changed.

Some forever not for better; some have gone, and some remain.

All these places have their moments, of lovers and friends I still can recall.

Some are dead and some are living. In my life I loved them all.”

It’s natural to associate memories with exact spots of real estate, but more importantly, God can speak through place.

The golden days of my childhood are largely contained in a place called Crayhaven—a cluster of cabins by the deep blue waters of the French River, in the northern woods of Ontario. Much of my early spiritual history happened in those scenes—whether swimming off the dock, or venturing into the stillness of mossy-carpeted woods, or warming my legs in front of a crackling fire.

My grandfather built the first cabin in 1938, and my grandmother christened it by writing a short poem called, “The Crayhaven Creed”…

            Here is a place to rest, a time for relaxation.

            Here Nature’s at her best, releasing you from frustration.

            Here’s a place for laughter, a place where friend meets friend.

            Discord must not enter, nor wills be made to bend.

            Here God’s love surrounds us. Let’s listen to His will.

            Not always in loud voices, but by sometimes being still.

With gentle words, she urged me to listen for God—and her invitation took. Over the years, I whispered many things to God in that place. And He whispered back.

Living out west, I haven’t been able to make the trip to Crayhaven every summer. My husband once teased me saying, “Why do you leave pine trees here for pine trees there?” Montana is truly a beautiful state. But it’s not about pine trees. I was pining for my childhood history in a place. He knew that. He also has places.

One summer when I couldn’t go, the ache of longing tightened in my heart. God apparently knew about that and took me to Ontario in a dream. Jesus went with me. We strolled around the cabins, which appeared closed up for the season. The sound of lapping water and wind in the trees seemed so real. I touched the red-painted surface of the screen door and brushed pine needles from the threshold. Jesus patiently gazed around, taking in those scenes so familiar to me. “I feel homesick,” I said. He nodded, but told me it was really a desire for Him in the same way that children love Aslan.

I returned this summer to the French River with three friends. Once settled in our cabins, I showed them a place called Five Fingers—a white water stretch where the Little French River enters the main stream. There, on a particular rock ledge by the moving water, I had said “yes” to Jesus in 1970, after my sister explained that He was the Way, the Truth and the Life.

Surrounded by my friends, I sat in that precise spot again as they each told of the place where they said “yes.” Lying back on the large slab of granite, I thought about a God who pursues all hearts to great lengths and at great cost. My chest swelled with emotion, and I launched into a flight of gratitude under the clear blue sky.

But not all places bring happy thoughts. In the movie, Forrest Gump, when Jenny returns to her childhood home, it triggers a torrent of anger. She hurls rock after rock at the dilapidated building, screaming at the memory of her father’s abuse. Forrest remarks, “Sometimes I guess there just aren’t enough rocks.”

In my experience, God also takes me to unhappy “places” to say things.

One time, in the worse years of pain and distress, I knelt down on the cement patio by the oldest cabin. There in the concrete was an imprint of my 4-year-old hand. The carefree joy of my childhood felt completely out of reach, as I placed my much larger hand over the small impression. Then God spoke unexpectedly.

“There was a little girl here,” He said.

When you know someone, they don’t have to speak in complete thoughts to be understood. Those six words served as a promise of restoration. Adult life had ambushed me, but God knew something remained alive under all the rubble. He wanted that “little-girl-me” to come back to life.

I am convinced that you also have such places. Places that send you into transcendent worship and other places that touch a sore and festering wound. Resist brushing away those moments. As Frederick Buechner said…

“We have seen more than we let on, even to ourselves. Through some moment of beauty or pain, some sudden turning of our lives, we catch glimmers…only…we tend to go on as though nothing has happened. (What! Why?) To go on as though something has happened, even though we are not sure what it was or just where we are suppose to go with it, is to enter the dimension of life that religion is a word for.”  (Emphasis, mine)

Don’t go on, “as though nothing has happened.”

Connect.

Let God speak a phrase. Allow Him to touch you. Because what He does in those places are some of the most sublime experiences with God you will ever know.

Tell me about a “place” in your life…