the valley
As long as I lay down and drink rivers of water, I can avoid the spinal headache, that thunderous, gripping madman storming through my mind bent on dropping me to my knees. It broods, heavy, hiding behind some banded muscle with its club lifted, daring me to move.
This, then, is the valley.
From here, I can watch the sky turn—bird-wing blue to dark sapphire to slate. Night comes on like a bruise. The leaves on the pear tree in front of me tremble with unseen birds, minimal creatures as hidden as the mysterious, unnamed things the doctor hunts with his tests, tests that lead to headaches like this one.
Maybe you have been here too, in the valley.
I rest here because I have no other choice.
Benefit of a valley, a friend of mine says. I can hear her wise tone when I read the text, one of many sent from friends reminding me that however broad the pasture may appear, I never travel anywhere alone. Even now, when I have no idea where I’m going. Where ever this stretch leads, God already dwells there, just as presently as He dwells here with me now, gently whispering. And I have friends close by; they will hear me if I lift my voice and let the words fly with the wind. To the valley they send cards and texts; they call; they stop by to offer me a hug, a prayer spoken right out loud. My friends set life down a little and drive my children to and from school. And, of course, my family travels close, loving me. Hardly barren, see, valleys teem and breathe with life, and that feels like a succulent surprise, like warm, plump fruit in the palm; like sweet, unexpected nectar that meanders down my chin.
I lift my Swell as any parched traveler would a precious canteen, gulping water–crisp and chilly like the water I cupped from mountain streams as a girl, kneeling on my knees. It makes me smile that water would be the medicinal thing I need. Jesus once offered a woman living water; He told her that the whoever drinks the water He gives will never thirst; that living water becomes a stream welling up within, like the life streams that make trees go tall. He told her that living water wells up to eternal life (John 4). It’s true; the more I have of Him, the less I thirst, the taller and fuller my spirit grows.
The LORD is my shepherd; I lack nothing. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside quiet waters. He refreshes my soul. He guides me in the right paths for His name’s sake (Psalm 23:1-3).
Years ago, my mom taught me to recite this. “It’s a song for the valleys,” she said, but maybe not so succinctly. Maybe she taught me by singing it herself, lying in wide pasture lands while I traveled close, loving her. I have sung this song in so many carved out places—behind shattered windshields, in hospitals, in the pitch black of night. The Word’s words bust apart the lie that we come here only accidentally; that we wander here lost and afraid and alone; that the valley offers us nothing but emptiness.
Valleys are actually quite beautiful, my wise friend says.
I look around me now, and I see that she’s right. In the valley I find rest; I remember that I am the LORD’s. I don’t wander; I’m led, and I can’t get lost anywhere if I’m following Him. I can journey nowhere that’s hidden away from my shepherd’s watchful gaze (Psalm 139: 7-12). Yes, sometimes it takes one pain to heal up another, but here in the valley, I remember that I am loved, surrounded by family and friends who carefully ask what I need, who make me laugh just in time. In the valley, God patiently refreshes my soul, pointing to things I would have neglected, things I would not have noticed at all had He not insisted I lay down awhile. From the valley, I discover again that God will provide for me, even if the greatest surprise of all is just how.
Valleys actually are quite beautiful. I’ve noticed that all the flowing waters of life’s mountains quietly nourish these scooped out spots, and I’ve seen with my own eyes: new life sprouts right here. Because where ever our pilgrim feet walk, where ever God’s straight paths lead, He is always doing a new thing (Isaiah 43:19).
And what of the hiding, brooding madman? Well, he’s already lost. I know this, even if he doesn’t.
