When I look outside, it appears that autumn is colliding with summer.

At first glance, summer seems to hold full sway over the landscape.  The temperature is unbearable, like a heavy blanket draped over the gasping world.  Beneath the hazy skies, heat shimmers over the crunchy dry grass.  But in the midst of this setting appears a classic autumn motif: the trees are losing their leaves.  In fact, the trees on the hilltop by my home are almost completely bare, the ground around them covered in curling yellow leaves.  Every gust of wind brings another shower of fluttering foliage.  

It’s an odd combination—as if November and August have struck a deal.  But actually, the phenomenon has a scientific explanation.  In a strange paradox, this leaf loss is caused by the converse of fall—intense heat and drought.  

You see, it’s a survival mechanism for the trees.  When extended drought threatens their resources, trees minimize their foliage.  Since the upper leaves in the leafy crown are the most valuable, absorbing most of the sunlight needed to make the tree’s food, they will be preserved the longest.  Thus, shedding typically begins with the foliage on the lower limbs.  Losing some of these less productive leaves allows the tree to conserve energy and reduce the rate of water evaporation, rationing these precious and finite resources to the rest of the tree.  Therefore, by entering a time of short-term dormancy, the tree can survive the drought. 

And that’s why the leaves are tumbling so soon, as if the sparse branches and barren trunks are too tired to flaunt their foliage any longer.  However, this survival strategy isn’t a universal one.  While most of the forest, and indeed the whole natural world, seems to be withering, there are some trees that are still green and vibrant.  These are the ones that grow in a favored place—along our creek.

These trees maintain their foliage because they aren’t scared by scarcity.  The creek’s course is evidence that underneath the ground, the water table is welling, a subterranean source that extends deeper than any drought.  These trees, then, aren’t dependent on fickle seasonal rains.  Instead, their roots grip fertile ground—soil that is saturated with enough moisture to sustain them even now.  When the rest of the world is parched, they can drink deep.  And they not only survive but also thrive—a verdant oasis in the withering world, a source of strength and shade, a witness to the underground water.    

I feel their flickering shade, hear the hushed rustling of the leaves, and the questions rise for me.  Which trees am I more like—the ones by the stream or the ones on the hill?  Do I depend on the deep wells of water or the shallow seasonal rains?  When drought enters my life, do I stay standing strong, or do I become spiritually dormant? 

The questions remind me of Psalm 1.  As the introduction to one of the most profoundly impactive books in the Scriptural canon, this psalm presents a dynamic window into the life of a godly person—one who shuns evil, seeks God’s blessing, and enjoys divine favor.  And the comparison applied to the righteous person is fascinating: “[The godly person] is like a tree planted by streams of water” (v. 3a ESV).

I look at the trees along the creek, their leaves laughing in the breeze, and I understand the image.  After all, the abundant life—described in Psalm 1 and depicted in these trees—is exactly what I want.  I want to enjoy permanence and stability.  I want to be vibrant no matter what drought tries to waste me away.  I want to thrive, not forgoing fruitfulness even during trials, because I am tapping into a resource beyond myself.  

So how do we attain this goal?  Is the secret to the blessed life working harder?  Behaving better?  Planning smarter or digging deeper?  No.  Look at Psalm 1 again and notice the peaceful passivity in these verses.  “[The tree planted by the river] yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither” (v. 3b ESV). 

Did you catch that?  The tree is not responsible for thriving in its own strength.  It’s not required to work frantically to outwit the drought.  In fact, to survive the summer, the tree does nothing!  The lifesaving contribution comes not from the strength of the tree but the source of the river. 

Friend, the same principle applies to you and me.  There’s no way in our human strength that we can withstand the withering drought.  If we’re dependent on shallow sources for our nourishment, then the heat will always hurt, and we’ll find ourselves suffering in scarcity.  But with God’s help, we can flourish even in drought.  If we choose to be people of the river—living in the Presence of God—then we can maintain vibrance even during trials.   

So how do we implement this in our lives?  How do we become a people of the river?  

Learning to live in the Presence of God, saturated with His Spirit, is much more art than science.  I don’t believe that spiritual growth can be reduced to a set of rules or packaged neatly into a three-step routine or dissected on a blackboard like a math formula.  Thus, the way of abundance is much more about a Person than a path—keeping our eyes focused on Jesus, following Him more closely, choosing after every failure to rise again.  And from that aim, we can draw some starting points—some techniques to help us along the way.  

The first of these is to keep ourselves low.  Take a look outside, and you’ll notice quickly that all of the prosperous trees are found not on the hilltops, but in the valleys.  Why?  Because the water table is always closest to the surface in the lowest points.  The river doesn’t run on the heights, but in the depths.  When trials strike, we are often tempted to elevate ourselves as the solution—our strength, our tenacity, our sense of control.  But paradoxically, strength and endurance are found not by pushing higher but by bending lower—because the river of the Spirit flows not on the heights of self-sufficiency, but in the valley of surrender, and trust, and brokenness.

Secondly, we are to stay by the river.  There’s nothing magical or mysterious about why some trees prosper and others don’t.  It’s a simple matter of location—and it has nothing to do with the nature of the tree itself.  The trees by the water prosper, and the trees far from its banks suffer—and if their locations were reversed, their health would switch as well.  

Thus, it’s vital for our spiritual well-being that we live by the river—not assuming that we can maintain our own spiritual safety, but intentionally choosing to spend each day on its banks.  Psalm 1 gives us some guidelines for this.  “Blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the wicked” (v.1 ESV).  This doesn’t mean we assume some holy façade or withdraw completely from secular society, but it does mean that we check our minds and hearts regularly to be sure we’re not being tainted by worldly values or drawn into the slippery slope of sin.  And as we empty ourselves of sin, we fill ourselves with Scripture.  “His delight is in the law of the Lord, and on his law he meditates day and night” (v.2 ESV).  Did you notice the word delight?  We don’t perform spiritual duties out of a sense of obligation, but out of love and joy.  And we practice God’s Presence constantly—not in isolated chunks of our schedule, but throughout the fabric of our lives.  In our every interaction, our every moment, we are holding the hand of the Holy Spirit.

We make ourselves low, we stay by the river, and lastly, we bring the river to others.  When we live by the river, something miraculous happens—the river begins to flow through us.  “On the last day of the feast, the great day, Jesus stood up and cried out, ‘If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink.  Whoever believes in me, as the Scripture has said, “Out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.”’  Now this he said about the Spirit, whom those who believed in him were to receive” (John 7:37-39a ESV).

Friend, when you’ve learned the joy of living by the river, you can’t keep it to yourself.  And so you carry the healing grace of the Holy Spirit with you wherever you go.  When coworkers see your patience, they drink from the river.  When your spouse is met with love, they drink from the river.  When your friends find acceptance and not condemnation, they drink from the river.  

You see, the river is not a place we go to retreat from the rest of the world.  It’s not designed for us to guzzle grace and only consider ourselves; instead, sustenance fuels service.  Just as I find respite in the shade of these trees, others should find our presence refreshing and invigorating.  As we live out river-rich lives in the midst of a dry and thirsty land, others see our vibrance and long to know our secret.  And in turn, we point them to the river—the unfailing, unending love of God.  

So yes—these dry summer days are hot and hard.  There’s a lot of drought right now—both in the land and in our lives.  But I look out the window at the green swinging trees by the river, and I smile.  Because I know that God, Who does not lie, has invited me to live the abundant life.  All He asks is that I surrender to His hand and dwell by His heart.  And then I have His promise that He will flow through me into a world that’s dying in drought, and “everything will live wherever the river goes” (Ezekiel 47:9b NKJV).