Did You Hear That?

On my usual predawn walk this morning I listened for “my” owl. The one who called out when I was asking God to let me know He heard my prayers. I didn’t hear him.

There has been a lot of activity around there this past year. Across the street from that cemetery a huge concrete tilt-up now blocks the view of fields to the south that stretch to the edge of the Molalla River. Every morning, even at that hour, construction crews are shutting down the night shift and starting up the day one.

To the west, past the metal recycler and the railroad tracks, the new bus barn welcoming drivers who are firing up the diesel engines of First Student Buses. The yellow behemoths are rattling and coughing, their back up signals are ringing in the dense air, as they head out to the further reaches of the school district.

The grove of trees where that owl stayed have been cut back, perhaps 25% of it gone, to accommodate a road widening that will feed the industrial area springing up like a fast growing ivy. In place of those missing trees is a muddy wide spot along the road, not ready for the cars that have suddenly discovered this more direct path to Township Road and the highway five miles away that runs through the town of Molalla. Their tires hiss, the thick mud splash as they negotiate broken pavement and large puddles.

In the distance I hear an emergency vehicle, an ambulance I think, rolling out of the fire station a mile away, rushing to the aid of someone who is waiting anxiously.

A freight train is running on the tracks which bisect our community. Those tracks are the reason this town grew, starting a hundred or so years ago. But now the freight and passenger trains seem to run ever more frequently as the city of Portland to our north demands more commerce.

This cemetery, where I set Willy’s small coffin in the ground 15 years ago, is no longer the quiet refuge it was. There is no sign of the owl.

I made a couple of laps in the dark, talking to the Carpenter. I told him about how I’m feeling about my home, my marriage. I lay my anxiety at His feet, and do my best to push the irritation I feel at the various noises out of my head, I think between the conversational words I toss Heavenward that I need to find a more secluded place now.

The noises blend together, the waking mumblings of a town that has doubled in size since I moved here 17 years ago.

As I neared my van on my last lap in that too noisy darkness my heart calmed down a little and I heard something else. It wasn’t entering through my ears, or my noisy mind. It was from my heart.

“I love you. I am here.”

Pushing all noise aside, I’m still hearing the Carpenter.