Within my daughter’s property in the Pocono Mountains flows a tiny brook.

It is not one of those grand rivers that announces itself from a distance. It does not roar, crash against rocks, or demand that tourists photograph it. It simply slips quietly through the woods, content to flow without applause.

To hear it, you have to get very close.

Even then, closeness is not enough. You must shut out the rustling leaves, the calling birds, the children shouting behind you, and, most difficult of all, the thoughts raging inside your head.

This morning, just before I got ready to write, I decided to visit the brook. The children of both my daughters followed me through the woods. There were four of them, stepping over fallen branches, pushing through heavy undergrowth and ducking beneath trees.

“Where are we going?” one asked.

“To hear the brook,” I said.

They looked puzzled. They had seen water before. It came from taps, showers, swimming pools, and bottles. Why should anyone march through a forest merely to hear it?

Finally, we reached the brook.

“Can you hear it gurgling as it flows?” I asked.

All four stared at me.

Perhaps they thought their grandfather had brought them into the wilderness to introduce them to an invisible friend.

“Listen!” I whispered.

They tried.

For a few seconds there was silence. Then three decided that listening to water required far too much effort. There were games to play, races to run, and adventures waiting elsewhere. They hurried back.

But my eldest grandson remained.

He became still.

Then he smiled at me.

He had heard it.

We sat together beside that little brook, saying nothing. The water moved gently over stones, around roots and beneath leaves. It had no speech to deliver, no opinion to impose, and no advertisement to interrupt it.

Yet it seemed to say everything.

For a while, the forest grew quiet. Or perhaps it was we who grew quiet. The worries in my mind stopped shouting. The plans waiting to be made stepped aside. The problems demanding immediate attention suddenly discovered they could wait.

Peace had not arrived from somewhere else. It had always been there, flowing beside us. We had simply been too noisy to notice it.

That little brook taught me that God’s most comforting voice may not come like thunder. Sometimes it comes as a whisper beneath the confusion of our lives.

We complain that we cannot hear Him. But perhaps heaven is not silent. Perhaps our minds are just too loud.

Somewhere near each of us, a brook is still flowing, waiting to be heard.

Hush! Go closer. Become still.

And listen..!

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