river

I’ve written with increasing frequency about unhappy subjects of late. Like a flood of epic proportion, they have overtaken me — and, it seems, most of us. Death, sickness, natural disasters, and so much more.

I want to quit dwelling on the negative things before me.

I have, just tonight, realized anew that I have been standing — figuratively — at the water’s edge, watching the level rise. Mesmerized by the current and its power, I have awaited its inevitable surge above flood level.

And, watching the flow, I suddenly hear music.

No, really. Music.

Away, I’m bound away,
Across the wide Missouri.

I suppose it’s no coincidence the words to the old folk tune Shenandoah are coming from the speakers on my desk right now. No, I didn’t select the song; it just came up in the playlist the streaming music service delivers while I sit at my computer.

When I say no coincidence, I mean I probably needed a nudge in the right direction.

I can take a hint; I’ll head that way momentarily.

Many times, I’ve compared our existence here to a journey — a life-long expedition to see what is around the next bend and over the next hill.

We are strangers in a strange land, headed for a different home.

They do not belong to this world any more than I do. (John 17:16, NLT)

Having said that, I also realize I have stopped here beside the rushing waters and taken shelter a little ways above the river’s edge in a place of safety.

I’ve stopped here for too long.

Much too long.

Too long, staring at the intimidating water. Too long, wondering when the awful flood will recede. Too long, waiting for rescue.

The road goes on up the mountain on the other side of this cataract of white water. I can see it from here if I have the strength of will to tear my eyes away from the terrifying flood and lift them to the hills.

The painting you see above hangs in my home. It is one of my favorites. Although not necessarily from the brush of the most skillful of artists, the picture tells the story amazingly well.

The violent torrent roars and tumbles down the mountain rift with horrible menace. Nothing in its path could withstand for long the overwhelming power it wields. And yet, mere feet above the white water, on a rickety and cobbled-together wooden bridge, seemingly unconcerned and unfazed, a man stands resting.

The Lovely Lady and I jokingly refer to the piece of art as our Simon & Garfunkel painting, a none-too-clever reference to the duo’s song, Bridge Over Troubled Water.

A century old, the painting depicts nineteenth-century life in the Canadian Yukon Territory. The best word I can think of to describe living in that rugged wilderness? Hard.

Hard, and yet (dare I say it?) triumphant.

Here, amid the most unfriendly environment man could imagine, a bridge spans the cataract of water. In safety, where there was no safety, anyone can traverse the dangerous valley.

Someone had to build that bridge. Over the troubled water.

Over it.

While the river rushed and roared below them.

And still, I stand beside the flood and consider. It’s likely, you know, that if a bridge can be built over this river, there will be another one needing to be built up ahead, and another one, and another.

Rivers don’t run in a straight line, either. I might even have to build another bridge over this very same cascade, further on where it runs even wilder and more furiously.

Funny. As I stand here thinking, I seem to hear the voice of the red-headed lady who raised me.

“We’ll cross that river when we get to it.”

She is right. She always was.

But right now, I’m at this river.

Today, the rushing water directly ahead needs a bridge over it.

I have no choice but to follow the road ahead. And, it leads up the hill across this particular river. This wild, untameable flood.

It’s time to get building. It’s a good thing I know a Carpenter who is only too happy to teach the craft to any who ask.

After all, He built the greatest bridge of all time. Out of wood and nails.

Away, I’m bound away…

I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth.
(Psalm 121: 1,2 ~ ESV)

A bridge can still be built, while the bitter waters are flowing beneath. (Anthony Liccione)

The pond is a large one beside a major roadway. Each spring, the rains fill it to overflowing, the excess water siphoning over the banks and making broad rivulets down the hillside. That fortunate overflow makes its passage to the river nearby, joining with the rest of the huge torrent as it shoves its way with abandon down the waterway, to join ever wider rivers, eventually making its way inexorably down to the sea.

Fortunate overflow?

How could water be fortunate?

I suppose one would have to stay around for a few months to understand that point of view.

The pond, for a short time, is a beautiful sight, so much so that some optimistic folks have built park benches and even a dock from which to fish or swim floating on the surface near the bank. During the months blessed with rain, there is frequent use made of these improvements. Romantic couples sit by the water’s edge; children splash and paddle in the clear, sparkling liquid that fills the reservoir; even a fisherman or two might stand on the bank, tossing lures under the snags and stones that line the end of the basin.

But, the day comes–sooner than one might think–when no one considers even sticking a toe in this pond, much less gazing on it admiringly. The water which was not blessed to make its way to freedom while still clear and refreshing, has turned a grotesquely green hue and is rapidly covered with a layer which defies any brave soul to violate its surface.

Presently, there are no admirers, and the once-popular retreat is abandoned, bereft of visible activity of any kind. The unfortunate water left behind in the rainy season is trapped in a putrid sea of green, stinky scum.

How could this happen?

What disaster has struck this beautiful body of water, to leave it so–lorn of appeal and purpose?

Simple. The rains have all but ceased, and the water that replenishes the pond comes sporadically, but not in a deluge as before. When it does fall, none escapes over the side.

The new supply only goes into the depression in the ground, not out of it.

There is no flow, no moving current. The biological eco-system produces nutrients, lots of them, upon which the algae feeds, and then it thrives in the bright sunlight. Soon the green scum is out of control, making the pond useless for any kind of recreation.

A chance conversation with a customer drove my thoughts to that unattractive place again just recently.

“I’ve come to the point in my life where there are no expectations of anything from me,” he declared.

I wasn’t sure what he meant, so I prodded a bit.

He explained, “For most of my life, I’ve been engaged, and active with other people. I’m getting older now and I no longer have to interact with them. I get to just enjoy the things I’ve learned and am learning.”

It seems my friend believes he has earned this respite–that his God has given it to him as a reward for hard work.

As he speaks, my mind wanders. All I see in my vision is that scum-covered pond.

Imagine! Of all the times when he should be sharing, in copious quantities, what he has learned, he chooses to become a hermit. Satisfied to keep his knowledge and wisdom to himself, he will die happy.

I say his, but I intend that you understand clearly I don’t believe it is his in any way.

Every single thing we have is a gift; we have deserved none of it!

It not only should be shared, it must be shared.

To keep knowledge and wisdom to ourselves is to become thieves, not once—not twice—but three times.

First, we steal from our Creator, from whom all good things come. They are His, not ours.

We steal from those waiting downstream for the bounty to overflow.

We steal from ourselves, preventing interaction which keeps us vibrant and active.

Like the pond, that which once attracted visitors now repels them. We even suffer personally, as all activity moves deep under the surface.

Trapped in an eternal cycle, we regurgitate the same old things again and again, never interacting and never sharing.

Stagnant.

The word describes smelly, putrid water that is trapped and still. Likewise, it describes our souls when we move ourselves prematurely out of the current and flow of life.

Give me the white water of the rapids any day!

I want to be rushing to the sea, surrounded by others who are going the same direction.

The torrent of the raging river is alive and dynamic.

The backwater of the stagnant pond is instead, defunct and listless, going nowhere.

I think I’ll keep rolling along. There is still a bend or two to go around before I reach the ocean.

The company along the way has been a treat, too. I hope you’ll keep moving right along with me. We’ve got lots more to learn together as we go.

Besides, I’m not a fan of scum-covered green water.

I agree wholeheartedly with those immortal words of the late humorist Erma Bombeck:

Green is not a happy color.

If thou would’st have that stream of hard-earn’d knowledge, of Wisdom heaven-born, remain sweet running waters, thou should’st not leave it to become a stagnant pond.
(Sir Frances Bacon~English lawyer/philosopher~1561-1626)

For just as the rain and snow come down from heaven, and do not return there without watering the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, yielding seed for the sower and bread for eating, so will my message be that goes out of my mouth–it won’t return to me empty. Instead, it will accomplish what I desire, and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.
(Isaiah 55:10,11~ISV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Crossing the Torrent