A portion of this reflection first appeared in the Fall/Winter 2026 edition of The Friedensword. The full piece is below. 

The garbled calls of several sandhill cranes echo across the upper flat and extend to the prairie where I’m standing—a euphony of life. // I hardly register the sound. I’m more concerned with calculating how fast I need to walk to finish my nature hike—at the exact right time. 

A sudden, strong breeze releases hundreds of orange and yellow leaves from their tree branches. They scatter this way and that before gently making their way to the ground, their new home. // I see this in my periphery as I hurry home, my brain focused on its mental list of chores it told me I needed to work on that afternoon—as soon as possible.  

A squirrel perches on an oak tree branch, acorn in hand, gnawing on it in that funny way that squirrels do. // I give the squirrel a mere glance as I pass by, nothing more. 

But then, something tells me to turn back, to be more present with that squirrel as it eats its acorn. So I return. I stand under the oak tree, my heart, soul and mind fully present, communing with the squirrel, listening to the sounds of its tiny teeth, soaking in the late-afternoon sun peeking through the leaves the wind hasn’t yet taken. And I see something new: I see these small golden threads of connection all around me, tethering myself to the squirrel, the acorn, the tree it came from, the people who planted it and the seemingly impossible circumstances that led to me being able to enjoy this exact moment. I feel my heart rate slow, my shoulders relax and a deep peace settle into my spirit. What was that something nudging me to be present? Was it God? I’m inclined to believe so … 

When I am fully, committedly, undeniably present in a moment, something shifts. I become intertwined with my surroundings, connected in a way I never thought possible. I reject the notion that I need to always be multitasking, always occupied with the latest invention that distracts me from the land and the creatures that we are.

The peaceful woods have presented me a gift I didn’t know I needed—presence. I want to lean into a full, all-encompassing presence with the nature, people and very air around me. And I want to invite you to join me. 

The mid-morning sun transforms the waters of Shavehead Lake into a delightful scene of gently sparkling waves, dancing seaweed and three white swans enjoying the view. // In the middle of putting kayaks away, I pause and sit on the dock, letting all that is around me soak in and nourish my body.  

A volunteer sits across from me at the picnic table for lunch, plate full of shells and cheese, crispy chicken tenders, and green peas. // I block out all thoughts of what I want to get done after lunch and focus only on building relationship with this new friend. I eagerly ask about their life and we identify all of the people that we both know. I feel my sense of humanity strengthen.  

After a few cloudy nights, the stars are especially bright, thousands of specks that are both so small and yet so unbelievably vast. // Though I’m shivering slightly, I decide to stay outside a few more minutes instead of rushing in to check my notifications. I am reminded of both my insignificance in this world and the truth that each person, each twinkling star, adds something beautiful and meaningful to the world.

I sleep soundly, filled with sandhill cranes, rustling leaves, gray squirrels, glistening water, new friend and stars in the sky, knowing that they are all a part of me and I am a part of them—everything is connected.

Presence is a divine gift.