I picked up Frederick Buechner’s The Sacred Journey for some outdoor, summertime reading. It was fitting to read the book lying on the grass with the sun blazing a halo of glory as poplar tufts drifted uninhibited like enchanted spirits. The book examines sounds and snapshots from his life that impressed themselves, for whatever reason, vividly upon his memory.

In the book, Buechner shares his journey from childhood to the point of his second novel and how he discovered in his late twenties that writing, for him, was a vocation, “for better or for worse to involve that searching for, and treasuring, and telling of secrets which is what the real business of words is all about.”  And through that journey, the pull and push of words, how he came to faith.

Buechner listens to the sounds of his life.  Men at work constructing something in another room.  The rooster down the street, crowing.  A grumbling stomach. A priest walking passing him on the way.  All sounds of his life, with its harmonies and disharmonies, speaking to him, telling him something – that life, each life, is not only a journey, but a sacred one.