Love is like a river.
Fierce and wild yet simultaneously gentle, gathering into deep and steady reflecting pools. It inhabits a persistent hunger to keep flowing lest it grow stagnant and stale. It swells with the rhythmic pace of the seasons and then slows to a patient hum, decidedly carving out a well worn path from memory with each passing year. Its voice is a mighty roar at one turn and yet around the bend it settles into a dainty chattering brook. The river waters are the source of life.
One of my fondest family memories was a day spent on a river. The summer sun rose bright on that July day at the base of the Rio Grande Reservoir deep in the Weminuche wilderness. James and Megan in the twilight of their preteen years, seemed to set aside their typical sibling squabbles for that one morning and decided to raft the river alongside our camping spot. Our only raft was Todd’s one man fishing tube. However, if we positioned the two of them just right it made the perfect river float.
This particular section of the Rio Grande marked its beginning, the spillover from the reservoir. It meandered through the river valley for roughly two miles with a collection of rapids and quiet pools. If James and Megan were to do this, Todd and I would set them in and take the Jeep down the dirt road along the river and meet up with them at the take out.
There was quite a bit of letting go with this. It meant that as parents there would be sections where we could not see our children on the river, we would not know if the raft tipped over, if they hit a snag, if they needed our help. James had always been unusually resourceful from a young age, however Megan was our ballerina and more timid in the wilderness. Letting them do this, required us to trust them and James’ ability to navigate the river and the obstacles that came their way. We decided to trust, and the result is a memory that is forever seared in my mind. It was the perfect day.
The four of us with tube and life vests in tow made our way down to the rocky river banks. James as captain of this ship took his seat at the helm with oar in hand. Megan climbed on back and wrapped her arms around her brother’s waist ready for the ride of her life. The summer river had lost the fierceness of the spring snow melt, yet there was still enough spunk left in it to make this an adventure. With a final push out into the swirling waters the two of them were off. Their laughter and shouts carried through the mountain breeze as we hopped into the Jeep to meet them at the take out.
The dirt road rose above the river as we watched them bump along, James paddling and pushing off rocks and Megan clinging to her brother for dear life. Then without warning the road careened from the river’s edge and they slipped out of sight. My mother’s heart skipped a beat. I could do this. Hurriedly we drove over the rattling washboard to the next viewpoint and waited expectantly. The minutes ticked away, our eyes refusing to move from the spot where we would see them next. We whooped with delight as they rounded the bend, arms in the air, heads thrown back hollering with excitement. They were having the time of their lives, the sheer sound of it rose up to us and filled our hearts with joy.
This scene repeated itself over and over as we traveled the slower pace of a river mile. Each time they resurfaced our hearts swelled as we shouted to each other and then rushed ahead to meet up again. Eventually we arrived at the spot where the river runs gentle and deep. Perched on a boulder next to the rickety old mountain bridge, we stretched out in the mountain sun, our ears tuned to the gurgle of the river waiting expectantly for their voices as they came within earshot.
We soaked it all up like a heavy sponge that could not possibly contain one more drop without spilling over. The crisp Colorado air, the soothing call of the waters, the joyous love that ran deep between this family of four, it was gathered and collected as evidence right here in this one moment in time.
We heard them before we saw them, excitedly rehashing their wild ride down the river. Plunging into the cool waters we swam out to meet them, tugging them to shore. Playfully splashing each other we recounted the tale and then without hesitation we all said, “Let’s do it again!”
And so that scene was placed on repeat several more times until we all laid exhausted on the big boulder next to the bridge. Our bodies weary and our hearts full on that most beautiful of summer days in July 2013.
The years following carried with it some unexpectedly tumultuous waters. Our family raft was tossed about and the river angry and swollen at times overran its banks, steering its own wild path. In those times of uncertainty and trepidation, I travel back in my mind’s eye to the day on the river when love of life and each other ran deep and wide. I remind myself the source of that love is the living waters of my almighty God. This living water holds with it the promise of gentle pools of healing and renewal just around the river’s bend for those who trust in him. I cling to this hope and my heart fills with joy once again.
