When the prayers of our hearts cannot be put into words …

There are 800 hectares of forest in the Gatineau Hills that are very familiar to me. I lived on the edge of this forest for five years when serving as the Incumbent of the Parish of Chelsea-Lascelles-Wakefield in the early 1990s and have spent many hours in it since. It is a place of deep familiarity and comfort. 

There are no official points of interest in this part of the Gatineau Park and, until recently, no marked trails. The forest is bordered by three roads, giving it an elongated triangular shape. The roadways have no places to park, serving mostly to get people to other destinations—such that the forest has only a few human beings in it at a time.

Wildlife sightings are common, and I have frequently encountered evidence of deer, porcupine, bear, fisher, weasel, rabbit, and other small rodents—including flying squirrels. There are also many birds, big and small, hunters and hunted, and lots of woodpeckers—especially the large and noisy Pileated Woodpecker. After a snowfall, I enjoy following the trails left in the snow by forest creatures, just to see where they lead.

There are steep cliffs and a winding ridge that reaches up 250 metres along the eastern section of the forest, and it takes some work to get to the top of it. The ridge winds its way southward, broken by a creek valley before it reaches the southern point of the triangle. When the temperatures are low and the wind comes from the east, this unprotected ridge can get very cold, and snow can form into deep drifts and crevasses. 

To the northwest, there are a few smaller hills and valleys, interspersed by brooks, springs, ponds, and the occasional craggy cliff. Over the years, beavers have modified this part of the forest, and I have come to appreciate marking time by witnessing the life cycle of these lodges and ponds.

There is a substantial pond in the central part of the forest, nestled between the tall hills and winding ridge to the east, and the round, undulating hills to the north and west. The pond flows eastward over a robust beaver dam and forms into a brook, twisting its way through a marshy area before trickling downward and mysteriously disappearing into a subterranean passageway. Steep drops and crags make it difficult to trace its pathway from there, making the portal where the water disappears seem kind of mystical—the kind of place that ought to be named after a Celtic saint.

To the west of this large pond is a tall, graceful, white pine, which stands alone, keeping watch over the sanctuary of the forest. Every time I return, I visit this old friend, who has silently listened to the cares of my heart over the years. I call it the Vigil Tree.

The Vigil Tree seems to know that sometimes the prayers of our hearts cannot be put into words. Some things feel too big, or complicated, or painful to express in prayer. Sometimes there is nothing to say. The Vigil Tree seems to embody the words of Saint Paul, who taught that when we cannot pray or cannot find the words to pray, the Holy Spirit prays for us, interceding for us “with sighs too deep for words.”  

Sometimes it is enough to go to a place that is familiar and safe, be it a forest, a church, a chair, or a window, and open your heart to God, wordlessly. And God, who searches your heart, will hear the prayer of the Spirit within you.