Sara Stein was astounded when she learned how water gets from the roots to the top of a forty-foot tree.
Water
rises up a tree because water molecules evaporate at the surface of its leaves.
As each molecule exits through a pore, it tugs the one behind, which pulls the
next, and so on along a conga line of water molecules clinging to one another
in single file from the end of the deepest root to the tip of the
topmost leaf.
This
life-sustaining process is threatened during a drought. If water becomes
scarce, leaves close down their pores to minimize evaporation. If water remains
sparse, the leaves curl to protect their surface from the drying winds. And if
the drought persists, a plant may drop its leaves to conserve water for its
trunk and roots.
Like the plants, my spiritual life must balance its intake and output of water. I maintain this equilibrium most of the year with my leaf pores fully open. While transmitting water to others, I am refreshed by daily time with God.
But periodically the drought creeps in so I curl my leaves to boost my reserves. I reduce my teaching load. I cut back on meetings and appointments. I schedule vacations. Our vacations emphasize physical exercise—hiking, swimming, biking; and spiritual exercise—reading, reflecting, worshiping. We want our vacations to replenish, not deplete, our reservoirs.
And finally in this battle against personal drought, I schedule a yearly retreat in which I drop all of my leaves and soak up as much water as I can. I take none of my writing or teaching projects, or my family—I don't want to focus on carrying water to others. I take my Bible, devotional books, and a journal. If I don't regularly water my life, I will become as barren as a desert.
When writer Kathleen Norris moved to the western South Dakota prairie she was surprised by what she discovered: "I've never thought of myself as an ascetic… But in acclimating myself to the bareness of the Plains after the cornucopia of New York City I found to my surprise that not only did I not lament the loss of urban stimulation, but I began to seek out even more deprivation than my isolated prairie town of 1,600 could provide."
As I have entered my seventh decade of life, I also have increased longings for quiet. At times these desires are healthy, finding delight in reading and writing and worshiping. At other times, I feel my age and want to wallow in mindless activities: televised sports, fluffy novels, internet socializing. But too much watering for any reason is dangerous. God designed us to disperse water to others.
During the 1950's our politicians authorized the building of several dams on the Missouri River as it flows through our state. The banks of the "Mighty Mo" were lined with towering, centuries-old cottonwoods that were partially submerged as the dams filled up. It wasn't long before they all died because a million molecules of flooded waters could replace every molecule of evaporated water. Today the erect stumps of those drowned trees bear testimony to the problem of too much water.
Our challenge is to blend drinking and dispersing, service and solitude—too little or too much water will destroy our fruitfulness. This mix will vary according to individual gifting and life's circumstances. (When we had young children in our home, the only dependable solitude took place from 2 A.M. to 3 A.M.!) But it is a balance we must work out with God's direction.
