The River

Walking through a cathedral of trees,


Bold shafts of sunlight illumine lofty green branches,

And warm the air with the heady scent of pine.



A carpet of needles leads to a river.



The water sings a deafening, riotous song,

That both beckons and cautions those who might be bold enough,

To join its path.



Two kayakers stand on the river’s edge,

Two bright yellow crafts, two helmets strapped securely,

Paddles held like walking sticks, grounding them to shore.



Eyes watch and calculate the rapids in view.



This rushing water, these deep drops and twisting turns,

Have the power to devour, to defeat.

A kayaker can paddle like mad, only to be spun silly in a whirlpool,

Overtaken by waterfalls,

And emerge soaked, bruised, and exhausted.



This same water, these same deep drops and twisting turns,

Have the power to strengthen, to teach.

Small, well chosen, deft strokes will navigate unpredictable current,

Overcome any torrent,

And bring unbelievable joy in the wild exploration of it all.



Rivers don’t think much of being controlled,

Nor do they have much compassion for those who struggle.

Rivers rush, rage, push.



Water consumes.



But I am consumed by a different force,

A greater power,

Allowing me to do something the river can’t do:



To choose.



Today, I choose to learn from this place,

This path, these waters.

I call on the wisdom of those with better experience,

And release grace to myself for the skill set I have now.

I name this an adventure,

And remind myself that by His Name,

I reserve the right, the authority, to command every last ripple to be still.



Let’s go, Lord.



Let’s go.