And as I drove away from the jail, leaving behind the confounded doors and my own feelings of clumsiness and embarrassment at not being able to use them, I realized also how I had been moving with God all through that visit, and the guards had, and David had. And I realized that God moves that way all the time, even when I don't know it. I didn't know it then, but it was there. Last week I went walking on one of the trails at Mt. Airy forest, and as I came up a hill I saw, from a long way off, a single sycamore set in among the other grey trees. The sun reflected off its white trunk so that the trunk shone, and it stood out clearly and distinctly from the other trees in the woods.
Sycamores usually indicate rich soil and the presence of water.
Sometimes I think that each day is like a woods to me, and I go through the days discovering the occasional sycamore, the places where the presence of God is unobstructed, where nature and history and persons have aligned themselves with the purposes of God, and God's presence is revealed. A baby is born, and in that power for life, and in the love that tends it, God's purpose stands out. A guard rolls his eyes and recognizes red tape for what it is, and God's purpose stands out. I forget that every tree in the woods is a sign of water somewhere, not just the sycamores. That the living water of God's presence runs beneath all the ground I walk on, whether I ever hear it or see it.