When a moment of transcendence becomes unbidden prayer

I've long given up on trying to understand why some things happen when they do. The theological answer, depending on your theological  view, is that all happens, directly or indirectly, in the providence of God. Where the theology becomes tricky is when we try to make that providence absolute and determinist. I prefer to think of God as engaged with, involved with, invested in, the history and destiny of creation. As to whether that means every leaf that falls is by God's direct will, it does mean that Jesus' image of the attentiveness of the Father who notices and cares for each sparrow is more than exaggerated sentiment.

So what am I to make of yesterday's coincidence of music and ornithology, when immanence and transcendence coalesced in a moment of joy, and a recognition of the marvellous serendipity of small things intimating the vastness of possibility for God to nudge us awake to the beauty of life?

I was sitting in the car at Sandend (the Moray coast), listening to Classic FM and Vaughan Williams' Lark Ascending.

The window was down, the waves were breaking white against some rocks further along the shore.

Two skylarks rose singing their accompaniment to the violinist and showing how it should be done.

And the combination of sunshine, blue sky, blue sea and white waves, sublime music and perfectly timed skylark notes, provided an orchestration that became a glimpse of that infinitely wise and fecund purpose that notices the sparrow, and endows the skylark with a song of heartbreaking and heart-healing melody.

As a child I lived in the Ayrshire countryside when skylarks were numerous, their song a daily liturgy of aspiration, and ever since that song embedded in memory and feeling. 

Prayer is often at its most real, not in the speaking of words, but in those moments of awakened memory, wonderful surprise, and impossible coincidence. No wonder poets love skylarks.