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3—THE RAVINE
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THERE are level places high up in the forests which wrap our Indian mountains in evergreen, places where dawn is all green and gold, and any little stream that may be running there is first gold then silver. But he who would reach the higher peaks which lie open to the sun must descend steep slopes and thread shadowy ravines. The dull grass of this photograph, so different from the sunlit tussocks of the earlier picture, the forbidding gloominess of the trees and the ravine, convey that feeling of depression that the ill know so well, and the tired and the very anxious. More courage is required for a walk downhill into shadow than for the plunge into the dark wood which, after all, was splendidly lighted.
That weary way is a place of memories. One of the readings of Psalm 42 sees the soul sharpening the knives of pain by remembering jubilant yesterdays. “These things will I remember, how I passed on in the procession, how I marched with them to the house of God with the voice of joy and praise—a festive crowd.” Yes, we were one of a festive crowd; was there any happy thing that we did not do? And we think of what used to be, so different from all that is now: “When I remember these things I pour out my soul in me.” Was there ever a sad heart that did not feel like that?
And yet we are ashamed of such feelings, and the stronger part of us tries to encourage the weaker. “Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted in me? [“Why droopest thou, O my soul, and frettest so upon me?” is another reading.] Hope thou in God, for I shall yet praise Him for the help of His countenance.” But soon the sadness has its way again—“O my God, my soul is cast down within me, my soul droops upon me.”
Blessed be the tender mercy that has given us the truthful story of such hours, and with that story the prayer of release: “O send out Thy light and Thy truth: let them lead me; let them bring me unto Thy holy hill, and to Thy tabernacles.” The mountain we are going to climb, the holy hill where His tabernacles are, is not in darkness. A broad beam of light falls upon that hill, a lighted path that leads to light like the pavement of heaven for clearness.
It is all true. We know that it is true. And yet there is something in the trend of our thoughts that is like the backwash of the waves, as wave after wave breaks on the shore. We have looked up. We have seen the lovely radiance of that upper air. But our feet must walk the ways of earth down that dreary hill, past those somber trees, and into the valley, before we can press up through the mist and stand under shining skies.
There is nothing imaginary about the oppression of the enemy, but there is deliverance from that oppression: “O my God, my soul is cast down within me: therefore will I remember Thee from the land of Jordan, and of the Hermanites, from the hill of Mizar.”