My boots scrape against loose stones as I stagger forward, each step a victory against collapsing, alone on the narrow trail that winds endlessly through the dense Tennessee Appalachian forest of 1971. Even the air seems to be thick. Sweat trickles down my neck, and my empty water bottle swings uselessly at my side - a plastic reminder of my desperate situation and my stupidity in trying to save a few pounds.
The afternoon sun was filtering through the canopy above, casting shadows that danced across the trail before me. The few shadows feel like a mocking respite, a moment of relief from the merciless heat that bears down upon my shoulders. My feet catch on exposed roots, sending jolts of pain through my tired legs. The forest around me stands a silent witness to my struggle, its ancient trees reaching toward heaven with gnarled branches that seem both protective and indifferent to my plight.
"God," I whisper the smallest of prayers, my voice barely audible over the whisper of wind through the branches, "help me." The words feel dry in my mouth like autumn leaves scattered by a careless breeze. I can't remember when I took my last real drink of water, though time has pooled and is no longer flowing.
I pause to wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, the moisture there is both a blessing and a curse. My body is losing water it cannot afford to spare, yet each drop of sweat is proof that I'm still alive, still moving forward. I've been rationing my water for what feels like forever, taking only the smallest sips when the dizziness threatens to overwhelm me. Now, even that option is gone.
The trail ahead curves up through a field with one lone tree, my steps are becoming more uncertain, my balance compromised by dehydration and fatigue. Every few minutes, I have to stop and steady myself.. A lone tree ahead, its shadow beckons, and I stumble toward it. When I finally reach the shaded area, I allow myself to slide down against a broad tree trunk, its bark ruff and hot against my salty, wet back.
"Help me," I moaned again, closing my eyes against the dizziness that threatens to overwhelm me. The words of countless psalms float through my mind, fragments of verses about strength in times of trouble, about God's presence in the wilderness. I cling to these swirling words like a drowning man.
A burning through my pants against my legs, jolted me back to consciousness. My eyes open to find the sun has shifted dramatically in the sky, its angle now sharp and threatening as it cuts through the trees. Probably hours have passed.
I push myself up on trembling arms, my head spinning with the movement. The world tilts and shifts around me. The day is still hot, so hot, my skin radiates, I lick my lips, but they remain cracked.
"Got to move," I think. Standing takes three attempts. Pushing forward against the black spots in my vision.
Darkness creeps in from the edges of my world, stealing first color, then form, then brings with it a new kind of fear - not just of physical danger, but darkening hope. My prayers have become wordless now. Standing here in the dark, I am more alone, weak, vulnerable than I have ever been in my life. The night presses in from all sides, and I can feel my grip on hope starting to slip.
At the forest edge my knees sink into soft earth on the slope next to a patch of damp moss. In the weak beam of my dying flashlight, I pick the moss and squeeze drops of precious moisture which gleam like tiny stars caught in the green fibers dripping into my bottle.
The flashlight beam grows weaker with each passing minute, its light taking on a sickly yellow tinge that speaks of dying. I know that once the light fails completely, I'll be truly blind in this pressing darkness. The thought sends a shiver down my spine, will I wake up if I fall asleep again?
Water comes drop by drop, each one making a tiny 'plink' as it falls into the bottle. The sound seems impossibly loud in the dark silence. Sipping the few cloudy tablespoons of water I watch as my flashlight gives a warning flicker.
"Please, Lord," I whisper, The darkness around me seems to press closer, waiting, waiting or its chance to swallow me.
I wrestled with my thoughts: Should I turn off my light to save its remaining power or should I trust the Lord's promises to protect me? A verse brightly floats to my mind: "The word of God is a light unto my path."
Swallowing my fears and summoning courage, I close my eyes and turn off my flashlight—surrendering.
"Save me," I whispered.
In the silence that followed, I sensed God's closeness. I knew He was there, had always been there, and I remembered that He loved me, yet fear still gripped my heart.
Then—a miracle! What I saw left me breathless with wonder.
The dirt banks surrounding me glowed with points of light that the darkness could not overcome. I dug up some dirt and poked at it, holding in my hand tiny grains of light and hope. I’ve never seen it before, but have heard about it. This small natural light is called foxfire—a phosphorescent light emitted by certain fungi. Like stars fallen to earth, tiny green lights speckled throughout the darkness. They radiated a gentle luminescence, illuminating the dirt banks and dead logs around me.
I stood carefully, then slowly followed the trail, now able to see my trail dimly. Small, green glowing lights sprinkled and sparkled around each footstep like a path laid just for me.
God shines through any darkness, and I had been surrounded by light all along. The Light of God's knowledge, the certainty that God is here, that He loves and cares for me... the strength of His Light overcomes my darkness.
There's a song that brings tears to my eyes whenever I hear it now — these artists’ words echo God's message to me:
I'm reaching out; I'll chase you down
I dare you to believe how much I love you now
Don't be afraid, I am your strength
We'll be walking on the water, dancing on the waves
“Dancing on The Waves” by We The Kingdom
Soon, along the trail, I heard a small trickle of water, I lay down, filled my bottle, and on a smooth, cool slab of granite next to a cool stream,
I fell asleep,
comforted by unseen hands.
