If you have spent any time on a lake in northern New England, chances are you have heard the haunting wail or crazy tremolo of the common loon, a bird that epitomizes the label, “water fowl,” as it spends the majority of its life in that element. Great divers, loons might be paddling along when they suddenly disappear under the surface, barely leaving a ripple behind, as they hunt for fish.

Watching, I am hard pressed to mark the spot it went under as the water settles quickly over it, and am surprised to see where it comes up, often some distance away. Below the calm surface, however, the loon swims swiftly, gracefully, silently, intent on its purpose, beyond my ken, until it reappears, its sleek head breaking the surface where I least expect it.

This summer, the placid surface that is our time at a lakeside camp was happily disturbed as family joined us for five glorious, hectic days. Our son, whom we had not seen for 2½ years, arrived from Japan with his wife and many bags. Our daughter and her partner drove from Vermont with fewer bags but trailing two gray hounds and a terrier. In a cottage that is perfect for two, and not bad for four, six adults and three dogs made for some spatial challenges, but we dove into the experience with abandon and laughter. The chaos created by having us all together was worth every crowded, messy minute.

All too soon they were gone. Clothing that draped over chairs had been packed up and the beds were stripped and ready to be remade. The clothes line that sagged with towels and bathing suits was empty and the canoe sat idle by the dock. The refrigerator, once packed with food and beverages, seemed bare, with only a few leftovers as reminders of our family feasts. Even the dog bowls had been rinsed and stowed away. Surveying the restored order, it was almost as if they had not been there.

Almost.

Like the water that settles above the diving loon, time and space settled over those five days and everything seemed as it once was, and yet the memories are there, lingering below the surface of the present, reverberating in the space and echoing through my heart and mind. Unlike the tidied up cottage, I am not put back together as I was before, but changed, reordered by the latest interactions with my kids.

Sometimes my experience of God is like watching the loons. The Holy One can seem so near, so constant, then suddenly disappear beneath the surface of my understanding or experience, and I wonder if God was truly there, as there seems no divine trace left behind. And yet I have learned from experience and through faith that the Spirit is moving deep inside, gracefully, silently, beyond my ken, and is likely to reappear in at an unexpected time, in an unanticipated place.

Other times, God arrives with all the noise and energy of a family visit, descending with gusto and force, disrupting the rhythm and order of life, throwing open the cupboards and drawers and shaking out the ideas and assumptions I have neatly stacked away. There is no picking up after that, no putting back as it was before. This is the experience of God who comes in fire and smoke on the mountain, speaks out of the whirlwind to Job, rips apart the heavens and descends like a dove over the River Jordan, and transforms the crucified Jesus into the Risen Christ. The intensity of such moments is difficult to sustain, and maybe that’s for the good, but it would be a mistake to assume a return of the status quo. In the few such life shaking encounters I have had, I know that I am not the same person as before even though things may look unchanged. Time and space can settle over the experience, but under the surface there may be movement in a different direction, a changed perspective, a new hope looking toward an unexpected horizon.

While there are times when God seems absent and unavailable, and I long for the light of that presence, I have found the longing, itself, to be a gift. I cannot truly miss nor long for what I never had, and I know, under the surface, deep below my anxiety and emptiness, beyond my ken, Spirit moves, and like the loon, will resurface, and like my memories, will reverberate in my soul.

Janet Dorman is the pastor of Foreside Community Church, UCC, in Falmouth. She can be reached at jdorman@foresidechurch.org

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