For some time now, I’ve had a longing within me, growing stronger as the wake of days lengthens behind me, a longing to walk in a deep forest glade. This desire does not come from some childish belief in the spirit of trees, or even from a recognition of God’s handiwork in the intricacy of one swath of the woods. Rather, it springs from the desire to experience that rest and promised peace that one feels in a mossy grove, which though fleeting, hints at the superabundant storehouse of such pleasures in the house of God.
I find myself in my mind’s eye drinking in the scene: earth and logs thick with luxurious, carpeting moss; elaborately curled ferns spreading endlessly in the stillness; lichen growing on tree trunks, close cousin to the impatient mushroom; the green-shadowed ambiance cast by leaves overhead, upheld by untiring boughs; and the smells: earthy, fresh, and…old.
It strikes me that Lewis and Tolkien, two of my favorites, had a very similar feeling—they must have—Lewis created the wood between the worlds (Digory could tell you about it); Tolkien created the forests of Middle Earth and many other similarly restful, arboreal scenes. I can see them, smell them, almost taste them. And I long for the restful bower my maker will provide, like unto Adam and his wife’s before it spit them out, forbidden. The wind and I…the wind and I…sigh.
