Them Old Hidden Streams

By: Timber Jones

In the vast wilds that are the Old Woods, the wilds that oppose a supposed “civilization”, I see five seemingly hidden streams flowing slowly to wherever they go. They were and are so unlike the chaotic yet steady stream of the outside, yet “civilized” world.  I pay the hidden streams the attention they deserve.  After all, they showed themselves to me, a passing tramp, when they could have remained unseen.

I can’t seem to find the moss covered log above the simple valley that gathered my thoughts years ago.  Even the moss can weather away, I suppose. These woods, these Old Woods, are silent. So silent, I tell you now  that I can hear a bushy tail wrinkle his nose. The stone gray sky has allowed a quaint amount of green to trace the needles of the silhouetted pines. If you stand there, as I do, observing God in the midst of His Creation you may wonder, like me, if this is my true nature. In this most natural state, a wild, yet civilized man.

Have you ever seen what I saw in the Old Woods – a darker grove of timber? Did it draw you towards it as it did to me? Did you walk unafraid into the shadows and the tall trees? There are no paths out here. I soon realize how long ago yesteryear truly was and that yesteryear, perhaps, was the last or only time another soul was here.  The Old Woods are generous with apprehension or courage and both are mine for the taking. Through the darkened grove is now a short distance between a road and me.  The road can be disappointing to see until I realize that in these vast wilds a simple road is merely a well maintained path.

For only ten feet where the fallen leaves or summer’s grass is centered on the road, acorns are mysteriously gathered,  Not another collection of the kind can be found along the way.  At the foot of a pin oak is a nearly perfect square of rock which becomes a suitable place to rest.  Among the 10,000 leaves of the pin oaks is a lone hickory leaf carried by the wind to a far off place and now settled and still as I am on this nearly perfect square of rock. The closer I am to my return to the house, the slower I walk.  I seem to tell my feet, “Just a little more time”.

When I speak of Creation I speak of the Creator. I understand Him all the more when I find myself wandering in the deep forest – deep into His heart and He in mine. It’s not a heart that is difficult to see.  We’ve made it so, but truly it is not. The Old Woods, the Old Time and the Old, Old Story. In so many ways they are one in the same. Like the not-so-hidden streams, the not-so-hidden God showed Himself to me, a  passing tramp, when He could have remained unseen.