At the Scent of Water

For there is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that the tender branch thereof will not cease.

Though the root thereof wax old in the earth, and the stock thereof die in the ground;

Yet through the scent of water it will bud, and bring forth boughs like a plant.

Job 14:7-9 (KJV)

He sat alone in his favorite leather chair, staring out the window at nothing in particular. His tattered journal and pen sat abandoned in his lap as he sighed deeply. It had been a difficult week. Long hours at work, teaching Bible studies, and planning Sunday School lessons. He didn’t mind the busyness–even welcomed it with open arms most of the time. It was part of what made him who he was, what brought him joy. 

Sure, he’d known some tough moments in his life. He’d lost a sister to cancer two years ago, had his business partner walk out on him, and butted heads with a few elders in church on occasion. But he’d survived. All the years of living for God, he was positive nothing could bring him down.

Until this week. This whole month, actually. Again and again, he’d been falsely accused and attacked by people at every turn. There had been other times but, lately, it was relentless and wearying to his soul. It seemed that God remained silent while he suffered and struggled under the endless burden. 

He was tired. Broken. 

Like an old tree that had withstood the storms of life but had finally crippled under the pressure. 

He looked down at the journal in his lap.

Like an old tree…

Running his fingers down the journal’s lambskin cover, noting the scars and bends that time had left on it, he opened the book to a blank page.

Gripping the pen in his fingers, he began to write. 

The old tree had once been a glorious monument of strength and beauty that sheltered weary travelers, provided fruit that brought restoration to the weak, and was a shield to those nearby–subduing the full forces of the wind and rain before they could unleash their fury on those that the tree protected.

But the tree had been broken by storms, battered by winds…cut down by man. All that was left was its stump. Its former comeliness forgotten, the old warrior now goes unnoticed by the passerby. 

Roots withering in the ground like the gnarled fingers of the aged, waiting for death to come.

“Send water, Lord.”

He pauses in his writing to look back out the window, repeating the words to himself in an anguished whisper, “Send water, Lord,” before bowing his head and touching his pen back to the page.

Pressing through the hardened ground–at first, it is a slow trickle. Hearing the cries of desperation from the perishing, it ripples intently against clay stones until they crumble in its path and the water reaches its target.

The roots feel it first, washing over its withered strands, then surrounding them with life-giving balm, awakening them with the kiss of moisture–calling them to live again.

Deeply, they drink, filling every cavern with a rush of the nectar of life.

“I will not die,” the old tree gasps.

Within weeks, a playing child notices hints of green peeking through the cracks of the barren, dry stump. In a few days, a delicate tendril pushes skyward, its fragile stem quivering with the slightest breath of the wind.

“I remember you, wind,” the old tree whispers. “You broke me once. You may yet break me again. But I will only rise again.”

The pen rests down on the page as the man reaches up to wipe away the moisture that trickles down his face. A reminder that–when we least expect it–the healing waters will come, whether it be floods of blessings from heaven or…a single tear of hope.

He knew it wouldn’t happen overnight. Healing never does. He didn’t know how, or even when. But in his spirit, he knew that he was going to be okay.

As he lifted his gaze once more to the sky, he felt the stirrings of hope push through his soul, like the delicate tendril of a newly-awakened tree reaching for new life.

“I will not die, he whispered.