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13—THE GREENWOOD
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AFTER the dark wood there is often a greenwood, and peaceful days that seem to breathe rest; and there is neither adversary nor evil occurrence. The quietness gives time for grateful thoughts about the way we have been led, such a wonderfully kind way. “Not one good thing hath failed of all the good things which He spoke concerning us; all are come to pass unto us, and not one thing hath failed thereof.”{10} How often when we did not know what to do something happened for our help, and our feet were set in a large room.
It is good to give time to the greenwood. Quiet thoughts come there, and quiet prayers; for all about us speaks of quietness. And we too want to be quiet towards our God, like the low green moss, that vaunteth not itself.
“Like low green moss—and yet our thoughts are thronging;
Running to meet Thee, all alight, afire.
Thirsty the soul that burneth in love-longing;
Fountain and fire art Thou, and heart’s desire.
Therefore, we come, Thy righteousness our cover,
Thy precious Blood our one, our only plea.
Therefore we come, O Saviour, Master, Lover;
To whom, Lord, could we come save unto Thee?”
But some have forgotten the way to that peaceful place. They have long ago been caught up in the whirl of machinery; there is a great restlessness, and they are much tossed about and perplexed. They see no plan, no pattern for their own life, or for mankind. Men groan from out of the city, and the soul of the wounded crieth out. A wounded spirit who can bear?
There are many ways out of that weary city: And I said, This is my infirmity: but I will remember the years of the right hand of the Most High. That “I will remember” reveals a byway from any street in the city into the heart of the greenwood. And if words fail us and even memory, we have this: “What can David say more unto Thee? for Thou, Lord God, knowest Thy servant.” Just that simple “Thou knowest Thy servant” can reveal a way.
But to each is his own way. In a seacoast village in the north of Ireland I used to listen as a child to the fisher-folk and farmers singing,
Goodness and mercy all my life
Shall surely follow me:
And in God’s house for evermore
My dwelling-place shall be.
The singing of that psalm, sung as it always was in the Scottish Metrical Version, seemed to open a sure byway out of the city into the greenwood.
Many an overwhelmed heart has found the way through carefully treasured letters of Samuel Rutherford: “Look to the east,” he wrote, “the dawning of the glory is near. Your Guide is good company and knoweth all the miles, and the ups and downs. Ye cannot be marred, nor miscarry in His hand.” And again, “Your faith may be boldly charitable of Christ, that however matters go, the worst shall be a tired traveler, and a joyful and sweet welcome home. The back of your winter night is broken. Look to the east; the day-sky is breaking. Think not that Christ loseth time or lingereth unsuitably. O fair, fair, and sweet morning.” The writer of those letters was a tired traveler; he knew what it was to be pressured, but he has forgotten that now. And even in his traveling days he could forget. “No face looketh on me but it laugheth on me. I go soon to my King’s palace at Aberdeen.” And Aberdeen was his appointed prison.
I look at the leaves and grass and fern; no face looketh on me but it laugheth on me, the little sunlit leaves seem to laugh. They laugh with memories for me. For there was a day when for two of us no face looked on us but it laughed. A child who had been in danger of destruction had been given to us in open court after anxious months of spiritual fight, and she and I were returning home by a road running for miles under the mountains. We met and passed many people on that road. Some were in mat-covered bullock carts like our own; some were on foot. And we were so happy, the child and I, that we could not help leaning out of the open end of our cart and sending a smile to all our fellow wayfarers. And they smiled back at us. We were God’s merry-men that day, and I always think of that road as the road of laughter and of smiles.
Such days are blessed gifts. They bless us, not only at the time, but a thousand times afterwards. There is no prison for the mind whose walls are bright with such pictures. The dreariest room is turned into my King’s palace.