By Rev. Pete Hyde
It was the summer of 1968. The base model 1963 Chrysler Newport (the only options were automatic transmission and power steering) was loaded to overflowing. A 14-foot john boat was strapped to the roof rack. A nine-horsepower Sears outboard was loaded into the trunk. Camping, fishing gear and supplies for a week filled every other inch of the car, including the middle of the front bench seat. Father and son rose early in the morning to start the trip. We needed to be on the road by 5:30 a.m. for some reason (because Dad said so). By 5:25, we were on the road from Topeka, Kansas to Beaver Lake in LaRue, Arkansas, to spend a week on the lakefront lot dad had purchased a few years before.
We arrived in LaRue late in the afternoon. The boat and motor were unloaded at the water’s edge. A suitable campsite was found and set up. Dinner was prepared on a Coleman stove. We wandered down to the lake to see if the fish were biting. There was a spring about ten yards out from the shore that had been covered when the lake filled. A worm on a hook cast in the general area would bring a catch of a hand-sized perch on every try.
As the sun set, we had caught enough perch. It was almost too easy. With no breeze, the lake mirrored the colors of a beautiful northwest Arkansas dusk. From somewhere across the glassy lake came the lonely call of the whip-poor-will. I had never heard that lonesome song in the night. A moment or two later, the call was returned from just behind us. Back and forth, the lonely lament filled the cool evening with a calming song of God’s creation. It was a moment I will never forget, and each evening I would listen to the song of the whip-poor-will until my eyes closed for the night.
Last night, before bedtime, I stepped out onto the back porch. The air was sauna-thick with humidity. Warm lights came from the homes around the neighborhood. A dog down the street yapped at something. It was nighttime, quiet except for the sound of an occasional car running down 30A, speeding, of course. The amber glow of the streetlight cast an eerie glow across the front yard and street. The moon, showing only half its face, looked down from a hazy, sometimes cloudy gray night sky. Stars were only visible once in a while when the haze and the clouds cleared randomly.
I stood there in the silence. Maybe I was waiting for God to speak as he spoke to Elijah in the silence. Then, from back in the dark woods across the road in Topsail State Park, the lonely call of a whip-poor-will shot through the stillness of the night. “Whip-o-will… whip-o-will… whip-o-will.” The solitary call in the night reminded me of that first time I heard a whip-poor-will call in the night. My dad has been gone forty years now, but whenever I hear the call of the whip-poor-will, I have a feeling he is still with me.
As I stood quietly on the porch last night reflecting on the struggles of my life, I believe the whip-poor-will call was also a reminder that God is with me in the struggle and in the victory. In the darkest night of the soul, in the stillness of the lonely feelings of despondency… whip-o-will… whip-o-will… I am with you… I am with you… I am with you.
When Elijah finally quit running from the struggles of life and sat in desperation under the broom tree in the desert calling out to God to take his life, God sent angels with food and drink and rest to renew his body and spirit for the task ahead. Whip-o-will. . . whip-o-will… whip-o-will. I am with you… I am with you… I am with you.
God is with you and me every day. Stop, look, listen this week. God is here.
Rev. Pete Hyde serves as chaplain with the South Walton Fire District
Author: Sowal Editor
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