The River Is My Church

Flowing waters of adoration:

The rapids call me to jump in and experience the adventure. Danger and beauty entwined. An awesome invitation. Why stay on the trails when the river calls my name?

Windows to confession:

I let my size be diminished by the majesty of the river. I am part of the grand story being written, not the main attraction. Keep me small, wash me clean.

Pathways of supplication:

I pass many along the river paths. Some can’t fathom acknowledging my greeting. Perhaps it’s their headphones, perhaps their fear. Some look at me like they’ve been waiting eons for someone to greet them. I wish them well. I talk to myself. I ask, hope, dream.

Cool breezes of thanksgiving:

I hear the stories of strangers. I give directions and restaurant suggestions, take photos of them with their companions. I take my own photos, even though it’s all so familiar, the sights change based on lighting, weather, angles, viewpoints. A snapshot of that moment’s glory. What will I see tomorrow?