WACKY WEDNESDAY WISDOM: Their Home, Not Mine

     Despite the fact that he startled me, I quickly recovered, got my wits about me, and stared him straight in the eyes. "Look here," I began dramatically, "You need to move on. I've got no problem with you and I don't want to have to use this weapon but I durn sure will." (My youngest son and I were talking about the word "durn" the other day. I explained that I'm not exactly sure where it came from and how it originated, but I know I heard it growing up so it must be a traditional replacement curse word of some sort. But I digress).
     After threatening my nemesis with the whole "durn sure will" proclamation, I engaged him in a tense standoff for a few seconds as our eyes locked. Eventually, the beaver I had encountered down at the river where I occasionally go catfishing at night decided to ease on down the road, or rather the river. As he swam away, I proclaimed loud enough for him to hear, "I have no beef with you Beaver Cleaver. I realize this is your home, not mine." He refused to turn his head even slightly to acknowledge the truce.
     When you're waist deep in a flowing river as you attempt to work your way against the current, anything near you can be unsettling, especially when it's dark. My headlamp and waders are helpful, but the whole scene can be a little spooky at times, especially when you hear something slip from the bank into the river near you, which happens with regularity.
     At the river near my home, I have encountered the aforementioned beavers, as well as otters (all named Oscar), snakes, noisy raccoons (all named Ricky), obnoxious swooping bats, cranes, and on one occasion, a bobcat. I carry with me on my fishing adventures one of those machetes humans use to chop weeds and small limbs, but I hope I don't ever have to use it for anything more than clearing some occasional brush blocking my path to the river. However, I have removed it from its sheath and flashed it at some of the creatures mentioned above, if only to remind them that I am willing and prepared to defend myself. I swung it wildly at a bat once and I'm quite certain I heard him laugh.
     On the night of the beaver vs. human standoff, I continued on up the river to test out a different spot after my encounter with Cleaver. The catfish weren't terribly hungry that night but I gave them an hour or so to decide. At one point during one of the many lulls between bites, I suddenly noticed how loud the cricket shouts were that night. "Wow," I said out loud, "I hadn't even noticed how wonderful y'all sounded tonight." (Yes, I talk to myself and to undomesticated members of the animal kingdom. I'm not sure why, but I'm going to keep on doing it even if kind and decent folks deem me to be crazy).
     Funny how that works. I became immune to the loudest noise in the nearby woods to the point where I could no longer hear it anymore. Some people are annoyed by the cricket sounds, but I think they make beautiful music, especially when you're down on the river at night by yourself with the cares of the world tucked safely away for a few hours.
     God was telling me loud and clear that He was present. The crickets sang louder than ever, Cleaver had made an appearance, a small snake had scurried away when I approached the partially submerged limb he was dangling on, and the few catfish who tugged on my line were feasting on stolen worms in the murky water near me. It was a God moment for someone who loves the outdoors.
     But alas, I almost missed it. Mainly because I wasn't listening. My ears weren't open. My heart wasn't in tune with what God was revealing to me. I was too worried about the predators and the frustration of the fish not biting to appreciate the heavenly sounds all around me.
     Psalm 46:10 says "Be still and know that I am God." What with cellphones, laptops, televisions, and ipods blaring at us, and Alexa and Siri yapping at people all the time, and dishwashers, ovens, microwaves, and GPS's barking out commands, it's no wonder we miss out on what God is trying to tell us in a soft, gentle whisper. Our internet and cable television went out recently and during those quiet moments in the living room, I actually heard a bird chirping outside.
     I enjoyed the sounds of the crickets that moonless night at the river as long as I possibly could until my curfew beckoned me homeward. As I moved through the murky, dark water back down the stream, I could sense I had an escort. Turns out I was right. Two or three times Beaver Cleaver thought it would be amusing to slap his tail on top of the water near me to remind me that I was on his turf. The sound of a beaver slapping the water is roughly comparable to an NFL lineman doing a belly flop off the high dive, which is particularly unsettling in the dark.
     "I know, I know," I said to Cleaver, "This is your spot and I'm making you nervous, but I'm headed home now." To which he replied, "No worries, my friend, you're always welcome here.
But next time how 'bout you leave the machete in your garage. We would all respect and appreciate you more if you didn't wave that thing around in the air at us like some sort of nincompoop." . . .  Well played, my little furry wet friend, well played.