The Stream: a Parable - by Steve Bateman

The Stream

Once there was a young boy who went walking and came upon a small creek bubbling down a hillside. It appeared to form a large and fast flowing stream rushing into the valley where it disappeared in the distance. The boy, being thirsty, dropped to his knees and drank. The water was pleasing to his taste and refreshed him as no other water ever had. After going home and sleeping a sound and deep sleep he returned the next day. The water drew him. This time it was not enough to drink it, he climbed into the stream, immersing himself in it, drinking it deeply, playing in it and enjoying it. Again, he was refreshed as never before. He knew he had found something special.

For days he explored the stream, walking up and down its banks, and was amazed. In places it thundered through narrow gorges of granite, steadfast and immovable. Here the stream was seen in all its power and majesty. In other places where the ground was level and the valley wide, it separated into many smaller streams, each watering a different part of the land. Each branch was unique and beautiful and he longed to explore them all. It was on these explorations that he realized that he was not alone on the stream. There were countless others spread out both up and down its length.

Over the weeks ahead he brought his friends to marvel at his discovery. Some came back again and again with him. Others, being weighed down by other concerns and not wanting to make the long walk, were disinterested and kept their distance. Somehow the boy knew that the water would form the centre of his life and activity. And it did. He found himself compelled to bring people there, the sick, the weary, the angry, and many of them were healed. By the time he was a young man he knew that his purpose was to help people taste this exceptional water. And he did. But there were so many who needed the stream and so few who came. Some were unwilling to make the long trek. Some had difficulty drinking from the stream, not wanting to get dirty on the muddy bank, and many refused to believe that the water did any good. “If I could only improve access to the water,” he thought. “Put it in a container and bring it to people. Gather enough so that all people could drink freely. Test it so they could compare it to ordinary water and see the difference. Analyze it so that I can explain what makes it unique. Educate people as to its advantages. Advertise it so that everyone hears. Improve access by building a better and wider trail...” But he knew that for his plans to succeed he would need a lot of water. So he set about building a dam. He studied dam building and consulted other dam builders. He chose the right place - a low spot where the water could accumulate that didn’t require the long climb up the hillside. He skillfully piled rocks, and dirt to contain the water. He created an outflow so that he could easily fill containers and take the water home with him to drink on the days when he couldn’t walk to the valley. He longed for the day when he could take enough with him to give to all those who refused to walk to the spring.

The work was endless. Not only did the dam need to be built, but the pond it formed had to be fenced. As the water was no longer flowing it would not do to have people swimming where others were drinking. There were signs to be erected, rules to be posted, a grand opening to be planned, a trail to be cleared, and containers to be purchased. There was money to be raised for these projects. Things started well. People came in large numbers, but that too became burdensome. Mr. Jones and his friends didn’t like the reckless behaviour of the young people and so meetings needed to be held to encourage more parental supervision. There was a crowding problem, and some couldn’t see. And so it went. But far and away the biggest problem was that the water simply would not be contained! Despite all he tried, using every accepted technique of dam building, it kept springing leaks. In vain he patched them, but the water always found a way through. It was clear that this was no ordinary water, and it simply refused to be held back! Furthermore, the water that was contained by the dam had somehow changed in character. It was no longer pleasing. It tasted muddy and had a murky hue, and smelled brackish. It was nothing like the cold fresh water he was used to. He found himself drinking less and less of it. Still he labored on. In time he became dehydrated, but still he worked on, growing wearier by the day. Finally, years later, now a fully grown man, he knew that he must give up. He watched dejectedly as the water washed away the last of his ill-fated mound of dirt and stone. He went home and slept a bitter and restless sleep, purposeless for the first time in as long as he could remember. He woke up that way every morning for several weeks until he arose one morning, earlier than usual, yearning for a walk.

As he set off, he realized that he wanted to be in the hills, and by and by he came to the creek on the hillside. As he had all those years ago he fell to his knees and drank deeply, and was refreshed as he had not been for many years. He looked up and down its banks, and saw that his dam building efforts had been unnecessary! As far as the eye could see there were small groups of people swimming, playing or drinking. Some were fully clothed. Others were nearly naked. Some were quiet and reflective, some noisy and boisterous. Some drank from cups or glasses dipped into the stream, others knelt on the side and put their whole face in the water. All had made their way over difficult and narrow trails, and all were content to linger for hours on the grassy banks without any creature comfort save the water itself.

And in a moment he saw the error of his ways. The water which brings such incredible life cannot be controlled and it was only arrogance which made him think that it could. It is there to drink, and to swim in and to play in. It can be studied but not understood, it can be shared but not contained for it is only in the midst of the moving stream that you feel its power and know its refreshment. And so the man gave in to the water. He returned daily to the stream and travelled its banks, meeting old friends and brining new ones. And once again the water was pleasing to his taste and refreshed him as no other water ever had.

 

Comments

[Carmel]

Beautiful and refreshing!