Text and art by I. Lilias Trotter

He maketh small the drops of “water”. I have never seen how literally true that is till I began studying the dew these mornings. Let a drop fall from your finger and you will see its natural size: but that would be too heavy for the frail little blades to bear – it would slip off them from its weight – so He weighs out to each the tiny measure that it can bear without even being bowed down, yet enough to “drink into” in abundance. On one wee filament of moss I counted through a magnifying glass forty-six little globes of water in what just looked like moisture to the naked eye – on one side only, without turning it.

Another thing – the grass has to stand very still as it holds its precious “weight of glory” – and so has the soul on whom the dew of the Spirit comes – literally easily as this dew, His dew is brushed off – some of us know it to our cost – an impulse of impatience – a sense of hurry or worry allowed to touch us – a mere movement of the self-life against His checking, and He is gone, and our soul stands stripped and bare. Noiseless must be His Holy Habitation within us – still with the stillness of the Holiest Place of old, with all the camp sounds shut out by the four-fold curtain and the very footfall of the priests hushed by the desert sand.

Oh, the desert is lovely in its restfulness – the great brooding stillness over and through everything is so full of God. One does not wonder that He used to take His people out into the wilderness to teach them.


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