The wonderous waters of South Carolina’s Healing Springs
This is a middle of nowhere story. A story of getting lost, a story of being found, and a story of healing, all somewhere on a South Carolina backroad.
This is the story of God’s Acre Healing Springs.
It was a Sunday morning, and I was enjoying hot convenience store coffee from the fancy Yeti tumbler I swore I would never buy because everyone had one. I was the last holdout, but now can’t do without it. Hot coffee doesn’t taste good cold. I’m particular about what I drink.
That was the morning, innocuous and like any other, I found a piece of land legally deeded to, and therefor owned by, God. Right here in the middle of not-exactly-anywhere South Carolina, tucked behind the Healing Springs Baptist Church in Blackville, is the piece of land L.P. Boylston deeded the to the Big Man in 1944.
As far as I know this is the only piece of land that holds that distinction. The advantage of the deed means the land is maintained by the government, and water is tested regularly, plus there are no property taxes.
Blackville is two hours from Charleston and a little more than an hour from Columbia. The rather remote location, however, doesn’t seem to bother the thousands of believers that travel here to tap into the spring’s legendary water. They call it God’s water. Many say it is healing water. And they keep coming back – generation after generation.
It’s a beautiful, peaceful area and everyone is talking to each other like old friends as the water continues to flow from the pipes scattered every five feet or so.
Pickup trucks and sedans pull up close and people bottle and load the water they swear has healing properties into their vehicles.
They are not the first to do so. Stories about the Springs, originally frequented by the Native Americans that called the area home and later by the pioneers who established settlements nearby, speak of magical properties and miraculous healings. And while that may be the stuff of legend, the artesian spring water is remarkably pure.
One guy I spoke to as he was filing his water jug said he came here with his mom when he was a kid and has been coming here ever since.
“Just taste it,” he said, “It’s special.”
I poured the last few sips of coffee out of my tumbler, filled it with water, and drank.
This water, like the trip to find it, was indeed special.
I should know. I’m particular about what I drink.