On a recent trek I went to visit an old friend’s garden, one who had toiled for many years under the sun and was the caretaker of an exquisite treasure as a result. On my wanderings through a nearby meadow I heard voices singing sweetly and could not resist their siren’s call. My feet led me through knee-high grass, with flowers clinging gently to my legs. At this point my ears were leading more than my eyes, for I could see little more than grass beyond my current path, but I could hear someone speaking in angelic tones.
Suddenly the field rose and fell away, revealing a brook that sang more than it babbled. It was no more than ankle deep, so I quickly removed my shoes and socks and stepped boldly into the water. Its clarity and purity were so evident from the shore that I knew it would welcome my presence. Upon sinking my left foot into the waters the shock of cold shot up my leg and into my whole being; I was temporarily unable to think, a sensation that doubled when my other foot, dragged along by the rest of my body, soon joined its companion. Both shivered in their places, their protests drowned out by the voice of the brook.
As I adapted to the water’s temperature I looked around and realized how blessed I was to be in such a place. The banks of the river rose, causing my blindness to its presence. I looked up and downstream, seeing nothing to indicate the river’s source or destination. There existed some foreign type of flower, dainty in appearance yet brilliant in its color, that dotted every possible clearing near the bank. Grass grew thick and deep in other places, and I prayed that so many others might have the same sensation I now held in my soul: stillness.
For so many years and in so many places my soul cried out in agony or eagerness. So often I have more thoughts in my mind than the forest has trees, each one competing for the precious sunlight of attention. Even those lost on the forest floor seize whatever moment they can, grappling with countless others to ensure no light goes wasted. My days are packed with their presence, and I cry out for peace, yet do little to find it. Here, though, the voice of the river seems to somehow drown out the competing voices, leaving me with stillness, with peace.
It is here I look back on the time in the meadow, the paths I have trod, and take comfort in their leading me to this moment. I realize that even in the depth of night, the eye of the storm, the shadow of the forest, that I was not alone. I was being led forwards, marching in step even when I felt like an idle fool. I was never alone, never lost to the depths, never abandoned to myself. I was a treasured child, rebelling and spiteful, but treasured nonetheless.
I recognize the abundance that surrounds me, the beauty here that resembles the beauty in my garden, the immaculate landscape of my friend’s soul. Surely such blessings as these can never be earned, never be deserved, but should elicit such gratitude in the soul that one is compelled to give every ounce of energy to saying the only possible response: I love you. Thank you. Amen.
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