Waters

A happy, burbling stream ran through the middle of her forrest. She always referred to it was "her" forrest, although at a scant eight years of age, one could hardly expect her to actually own it. But eight year olds know the delight of possession as well as eighty year olds, perhaps even better, and she gloried in "her" woods.

The stream was a favorite haunt. It's happiness, sparkling clarity and cool ripples made the little girl glad as she built dams and bridges over and around it, she skipped rocks, waded, hunted up crawdads, and was all in all enamored with her little stream. Anyone would be. It was peaceful. Clean. Refreshing.

One day this little lady decided that her normal boundaries for playing in the stream were too confined. So, amply armed with her picnic bastket full of sandwiches and a stout stick and little candle she had grown rather fond of because of their useful nature, our little heroine set off.

For a while the stream was as it had been in her back yard- bubbling, sparkling. But then it began to change...

At first the difference was so subtle that the little girl hardly noticed it. But suddenly it became clear to her that something had changed. The water was murkier, she could no longer see her feet plodding along the stream bed. Occasionally she would stumble and fall right into a huge, unseen hole on the floor of the stream.

Everything was still pretty, but not as much. There was a slight mood change in the water that started to frighten her. The water no longer laughed. It sulked along its way, sometimes hurying and rushing over large, dark objects- hidden by its murky flow.

The little girl was no coward. She pressed on, though now and again her heart stopped out of fear. The way was growing darker. Thick, heavy trees pressed down in an unfriendly way about her. The air was heavy with a pungent, thick odor that made her sick.

Turning around the bend she was confronted by a little cave. Lighting her tiny candle, she ventured in... The stream kept running, forming the floor of the dank, dark hole.

"Why it's not very big!" She exclaimed. Her voice sounded funny, and she whispered her next line, "Surely my stream must stop here. There's no where else for it to go..." But her sentence trailed off in disbelief as she rounded another turn and looked before her. In the faint, tottering light of her candle she saw her little brook join a huge black stream. Black and cavernous, it filled the floor of a vast, hich chamber whose walls were coated with black slime and vermin. Various channels of this rushing river broke off and disappeared into other tunnels, some large, some small. Some fell down huge water falls, others squeezed through tight places. But even with her faint light she could tell that her little river extended far beyond the scope of her imagination, into worlds that were dark, black and impenetrable to her. Only her little candle made it easy for her to see the filth and grime around her.

"Oh! I had no idea it was so big!" Slowly she moved across the huge stream- candle held high, her staff anchoring her. As she moved about the cavern, she began to do a strange thing. She reached up as high as she could and began rubbing away at the black coating on the walls. She worked slowly, occasionally growing discourages, but never stopping. She move from room to room, chamber to chamber trying to make her river, "a happy, clean river."

To this day, that little girl is still there, patiently cleaning, sometimes crying, often despairing. But her little light shows her where to go and what to clean. It sees areas that she can't. And by her side is her faithful walking stick- always there steady, to reassure, to offer support. And so she continues- slowly making "her" river a cleaner river.

The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it? (Jer. 17:9)

The purposes of a man's heart are deep waters. (Prov. 20:5)

Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light for my path. (Psalm 119:105)