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The water glistened in the still as dawn crept across her surface; an intimate dialogue between two primal energies. I sat on the rocky bank, shivering in the chill as the sun overtook her mystery with splendid light.
I had never witnessed such a dance of nature so eloquently entwined as that morning when the purple gray of water beckoned the rose of dawn to frolic with her in silence. One lone crane glided perfectly between the two, narrowly skimming the surface of the water. Finding solace on a protruding rock, it humbly awaited the sun’s demise of nights’ cover. With light came food.
Crane eyed me with curiosity as I dipped my toe gingerly into the wavelets that lapped against the sand, depositing the evidence of the river’s strength. Dashed shells, and a broken stump lay in a heap on the beach washed ashore during the rains a few days before. The banks echoed with quiet stories of the river’s fury.
She offered the gift of life to those who settled near by, inspiring the cycles of nature to flourish at her edge. We dragged our nets for fish, and our families gave thanks for God’s abundant provision from the sweet deep waters. Here, the doe drinks warily while the wolf lies in wait. We should’ve taken better note of that; the unseemly snare of death that stalks the banks in silence—entreating all with the lure of gilded bounty, then seizing whatever it desires.
So it was that morning when the rains began. She quivered as though waking from a peaceful dream. How were we to know that we perched on the edge of a deadly interplay of God and His creation? As she rose from her stormy bed, we scrambled to make sense of it all, moving with quick determination to escape the wrath of the river as she joined the melody of the tempest. Higher ground, we thought; we’ll be safe on higher ground.
Little did we know that miles upstream our fate had been sealed as the melt gave way to the warming touch of spring. The mountain peaks jeered at us as we attempted to climb to safety. How frail we were against the might of God; how powerless to avoid His hand as He swooped down from His throne to pluck the righteous from His earth that morning. She was but His willing muse, the peaceful river, displaying the power of God in one glorious crescendo. As the wall of water swept over us, we gave no thought to anything but Heaven.
I alone survived, beaten and crushed and thrown from her hand as though unworthy to join the elegant parade of God’s eternal sovereignty. Who knows how long I lay broken on the sand, like rubbish—perhaps the token of her disdain for the fragility of man. Days at her edge held no meaning for me. Everything I was she deftly plucked from me and I begged her to claim what was left. She silently ignored my pleas—as did God. Not even wolf approached to put an end to my misery.
I slipped beneath her surface, her chilly grasp almost more than I could bear. If God would not take me, then the river would surely offer her condolences by receiving the mud and dried blood from my skin. Morning upon morning I’d waited for the courage to taste the waters that stole my life. Crane seemed to approve of my decision to make my peace with her, flapping his massive wings as if entreating the river to heal me. If ever I was to give thanks again, I knew what I must do.
I released the terror of that morning when she laid claim to our settlement with a piercing scream, splitting her facade of tranquility. Crane took to the air, as the river received my rage. My tears were now a part of her she could not give up. I intentionally stained her placid waters with my grief, thinking somehow to leave my mark on her, as she’d indelibly left hers upon me. There, in her midst I impugned her power against me, crying out to her architect for mercy.
I was rescued days later, by a band of settlers downstream who’d set out to look for survivors.
“One day the heavens will open for me; this gift bestowed on fragile men, is Glory you will never know” I reminded her, as I lifted my heart in thanksgiving.
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