A Cave and a Question

"Why are you here?"

Photo by Ksenia Kudelkina on Unsplash

There are many reasons to go to the woods.

To explore.

To hide.

To escape.

As a child, growing up on a rural Oregon farm, the logging trails behind our house drew me to the woods the way treasure draws pirates, the way the moon draws the ocean—an irresistible urge that lured my brother and me to explore regions unknown. Tromping beneath the towering firs with our faithful collie, Sun Halo, we named our discoveries, like Larry’s Clearwater Revival, a stream that flowed through a deep gully—partly inspired by our absent father, partly by a 70s rock band.

“If Halo raises her hackles, look for a bear,” Mom warned before we set off. “If you see one, don’t run. Curl up and play dead.”

What were we, seven and eight?

Despite lazy mornings listening to Peter and the Wolf on Mom’s turn-table, it never really occurred to me that woods could be dangerous.

Follow Mom’s instructions and we’d be safe.

Three decades later, Halo was dead. Mom too. And once again, I was setting off to explore regions unknown. There was something about choosing the clothes in which to bury my mother. Something about emptying her house, one vanload of books and art and antiques at a time. Something about missing her voice on the other end of the line, “Oh, Rue, it’s you . . .” that made me stake a for-sale sign in what had been my family’s front yard for two decades.

In this home, my husband and I had welcomed six children and said goodbye to one. It sat above a street so littered with cars, I had to close the windows in summer to hear whoever was calling on the phone. Beyond our neighbors’ steeply pitched roofs towered cranes from the nearby shipyard with lights that flashed all night through the fog like disco balls on our walls. But after losing my mom, I needed to hide. To escape.

So we bought the only house we could afford—one that had been abandoned and gutted, like me. Behind it rose 900-acres of woods. A forest not our own. But ours to hear owls calling through the open windows at night. Ours to follow the tracks of deer and rabbits beneath snow-dappled pines. Ours for our children to seek their own adventures.

How often did my heart beat hard, my breath catch, when our youngest would wander off at age four, five, six . . . crouched behind a thick trunk where our aging eyes couldn’t see, refusing to answer our increasingly desperate calls? Or maybe too absorbed in a moss-covered stone, the soft orange underbelly of a salamander, the black-winged crows flying overhead.

There are many reasons for hiding.

Many means of escape.

When the prophet Elijah was pursued by a murderous queen, he hid in a cave. To reach it, he trekked through the desert for forty days and nights, in fear for his life. The same man who had held back rain, prayed a boy back to life, called down fire from heaven, now cowered in a cave, expecting death. Then, after a thundery day of flashing lights and crumbling rock, came God’s whisper, “Why are you here?”

The last few years have included many thundery days of flashing lights and falling rock—days that led to a cave and a question, “Why are you here?”

A question I am still seeking to figure out.

Perhaps some questions are best answered by naming what we discover.

By being still, rather than running away.

By no longer hiding.

Because what if behind our greatest fear lies our greatest joy?

Bears are everywhere it appears.

I’ve played dead for years.

But the same way I was once drawn into the woods, I am now being drawn out of them.

(Updated March 18, 2026)

In other news, I am delighted to share that my essay, “A Son’s Dream and a Mother’s Prayer,” is included in book no. 6 of Guidesposts publication’s Too Amazing for Coincidence: God’s Saving Grace. If you, like me, need a little encouragement that God is really with us in these thundery days, I hope you’ll read my story about the day God protected one of my children.

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Your subscriptions, comments, and shares mean so much, particularly during this season of new growth. In April, I’m thrilled to be attending Calvin University’s Festival of Faith & Writing in Grand Rapids, along with a dear friend. If you’re a writer, reader, or thinker, check it out. And please stop by the Redbud Writers Guild’s booth in the exhibition hall to say hello. I would love to meet you!

If you too find yourself stepping out of a cave or questioning God’s presence, please drop me a note. God wants to be our refuge—not a cave to hide in, but a safe shelter that will not crumble when the earth quakes. Meanwhile, I’ll be at my desk in the front corner of my porch—not hiding, but abiding—as I revise one novel and write a non-fiction book proposal that I am very excited about. Prayers appreciated!

Faith, Hope, and Love,

Meadow

Meadow Rue Merrill, M.Ed. in Literacy, is a full-time writer and certified teacher-consultant with the National Writing Project. She has helped author nine books, including her Christopher- and Maine Literary Award-winning memoir, “Redeeming Ruth: Everything Life Takes, Love Restores” and the five-part Lantern Hill Farm picture book series. She is currently revising a middle-grade novel about a girl whose family goes to the woods after a devastating loss. Please subscribe, follow on social media, and visit Meadow’s website: www.Meadowrue.com