The Porch of His Presence

MONK'S JOURNAL
The Edge of Something

It was not a planned hike.
I had no map, no trail guide—only a quiet nudge from somewhere deep inside that told me: walk. Just walk.

The morning air carried that familiar dampness only forests know—the mingling of dew and moss and earth warmed gently by the sun’s slow rise. Shafts of golden light filtered through the canopy as if God Himself had drawn back the leaves like curtains, allowing His morning to enter.

I followed no path at first, stepping over fallen limbs, brushing past young saplings, my hands trailing across ferns heavy with moisture. The fading scent of mountain laurel lingered in the air, a few clusters of pink blossoms still clinging to the edges of shaded clearings. A few early dragonflies hovered like living jewels, their wings catching the light.

Birdsong accompanied me. Not a chorus, but scattered voices: the clear whistle of a wood thrush, the soft cooing of mourning doves, and now and then the sharp cry of a distant hawk circling above. Insects hummed their unseen harmonies all around me.

Time softened.

I paused often—not from fatigue, but from reverence. Every leaf, every breath of wind, every shimmer of light on bark seemed to carry meaning.

Eventually, the woods began to thin. I stepped from the shelter of trees into a small, quiet meadow bathed in amber light. The grasses swayed gently in the breeze, and the horizon seemed to open like a held breath finally released.

And though I did not speak aloud, I whispered inwardly:
Lord… is this the way?

And though I heard no voice, my heart recalled the ancient promise:
“Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it.’”
(Isaiah 30:21)

I knew I was searching for something—but not a destination marked on any human map.
I was being drawn.
Somewhere ahead was a place not built by my hands, waiting like an unopened letter sealed long ago.

I stood still.

The ache of longing that had stirred on Iona returned—but not as sharp now.
Softer.
More like an invitation.

I do not know how long I stood there.
But when I finally turned to head home, I knew something with quiet certainty:

I would soon find what had been waiting for me.
Or rather…
It would soon find me.