Thoughts About DaySpring

I can't recall exactly when it was that I first came to DaySpring. Maybe it was a crisp, still, mid-October morning with just the promise of a cool breeze in the air. Or perhaps a fresh, spring day in early April, one of those day's that's just casting off winter's chill and filling up with sunshine. It could even have been a sun-drenched, sultry morning in September, a day of Indian Summer still clinging to oppressive heat, just like this one. It could have been any of those days, or none of them. The truth is, I don't remember much about the exact day, the time of year, or even, exactly, the year that I first encountered this place. That's not what stands out to me.

What stands out to me is the softly-stealing sense of homecoming that crept over me and overtook me before I was even aware of it. What stands out is the fact that it all felt so new, and yet somehow so familiar, at the same time. This place was unlike any other church I had set foot in, different in a way I couldn't quite put my finger on. It was fairly buzzing with life and cheer and abundance, but so, so peaceful. People were so friendly to me, so kind and welcoming. Even though they'd never met me before, they were genuinely glad to see my face. I felt something inside me give a deep sigh and stretch out a little bit. Here was encouragement, here was love and acceptance, here was room to grow, here was a place to rest. And, incredibly, I felt all of that in an instant. It was instinctive, I just knew. This was home.

And then there was the silence. Again, something so familiar, silence. Yet this was a kind of silence I had never experienced before. This wasn't dead silence, not void silence, the silence of a group of people who were bored, who were going through the motions. Nor was it a timid silence, not holding back, the silence of people who were afraid to laugh or cry or clap or shout for joy. The best way I know to describe it is a rushing silence. It was a silence of barely contained excitement. It was a silence of action, a silence of waiting. The silence of a deep breath taken right before something tremendous and wonderful happens. The silence of reverence and sincerity, the silence of centered participation. It was a great, rushing, lovely, lively silence.

And there was a surprise. A coincidence I suppose, if you believe in those things, but it felt just exactly like a special surprise meant only for me. There was a quotation scrawled across the front of the worship guide, a quotation from my very favorite poet. A line of poetry that had already been a very favorite of mine for a long time, that held great meaning for me. "Earth's crammed with heaven," it said, "and every common bush afire with God; but only those who see take off their shoes. The rest just sit round it and pluck blackberries." So true! And so definitive of the way I have experienced faith, of my unique perspective on the world. And then a lovely young woman sang and played a beautiful song she'd written, based on that line. And it really was like receiving my own special present, a gift meant just for me.

And now, five or six or seven (or however many it's been) years later, I am still impressed by these same things every week at DaySpring. Because every time I set foot in this building, or teach a Sunday School class, or spend time with any of these people, or sit in the woods just outside here, I am still struck by that sense of homecoming, that same feeling of belonging and rest. And I still feel the buzz and the life in the silence at DaySpring, and am learning, ever more, to reflect and even inhabit that kind of silence, to center it down, inside of me that way. And I still, always, walk away with a special surprise. A little nugget of truth, a little gift all my own, meant just for me. I'm so glad, so blessed, to have had DaySpring as a part of my life. Thank goodness I have at least one more year to call it my home.