There are certain places in life where the soul naturally exhales.
For many Canadians, the dock is one of them.
Now, I realize that not everyone possesses access to a cottage, lakefront property, or even what real estate agents optimistically describe as “water adjacency.”
But there is something almost universally recognizable about the image itself:
A wooden dock stretching quietly out over still water.
A lawn chair positioned with deep intentionality.
The soft rhythmic sound of waves against weathered boards.
And somewhere nearby, inevitably, a loon calling with the sort of haunting beauty that makes one immediately feel both peaceful and slightly more Canadian.
Now, I should confess that I have always loved docks.
Not because anything particularly productive happens there.
Quite the opposite.
Docks exist largely for the sacred purpose of not accomplishing very much at all.
One sits.
One watches the water.
One contemplates whether one should perhaps eventually move slightly farther into the shade.
And honestly, this may be one of the healthiest spiritual practices available to modern humanity.
Because the world trains us relentlessly toward productivity.
Everything must achieve something.
Optimize something.
Improve something.
Even recreation now occasionally arrives with goals, performance metrics, and suspiciously athletic equipment.
But the dock quietly resists all of this.
The dock simply invites presence.
Now, I suspect this is why places near water have always carried spiritual significance.
Throughout Scripture, water repeatedly becomes a place of encounter.
Rivers.
Seas.
Lakeshores.
Again and again, people meet God near water because water slows human beings down enough to notice things.
The movement of light.
The stillness between sounds.
The astonishing beauty of creation carrying on quite peacefully without our supervision.
And perhaps that realization itself is healing.
Now, I should also admit that docks possess their own entirely unique theology of balance and humility.
No one has ever walked confidently onto a dock without at least some awareness that one poorly considered step could result in a deeply memorable and extremely public aquatic event.
This keeps a person grounded spiritually.
Grace abounds.
But perhaps that too is part of the beauty.
Creation reminds us that we are not in control of everything.
And oddly enough, that can become tremendously freeing.
Because once one stops trying to master every moment of life, one becomes far more capable of simply receiving life gratefully.
Now, summer Saturdays in Ordinary Time are particularly suited to this sort of spiritual rediscovery.
The Church’s long green season quietly invites us to notice growth, beauty, and rest again.
Not dramatic mountaintop experiences.
Just ordinary wonder.
The dragonfly hovering over the lake.
The warmth of sun on weathered wood.
The smell of pine trees drifting through the evening air.
And somewhere in all of this, God remains wonderfully present.
Not hidden away from creation.
Alive within it.
Speaking gently through beauty, stillness, and the quiet invitation to stop hurrying for a little while.
Now, I realize many of us struggle with this.
We sit down physically while remaining mentally engaged in seventeen unfinished tasks and at least three entirely hypothetical future problems.
I know this experience well.
But eventually, if we stay on the dock long enough, creation itself begins softening the noise inside us.
The water keeps moving quietly.
The wind continues through the trees.
The sky slowly changes colour toward evening.
And little by little, the soul remembers how to rest again.
So perhaps this Saturday, if the opportunity presents itself, find your way outdoors for a while.
Sit by the water.
Listen carefully.
Let creation preach its gentle sermon.
And remember that God often meets us not only in great cathedrals…
…but also on weathered docks beneath summer skies.
Alleluia.
Companion Prayer
Creator God,
Thank you for the beauty of water, sky, and summer stillness.
Teach us to slow down,
to rest deeply,
and to notice your presence in creation.
Quiet the noise within us.
Restore weary hearts through beauty and peace.
And in these green and growing days of Ordinary Time,
help us encounter you again
in the simple wonder of the world you have made.
Amen.