The Peak of Inspiration

Have you notice that rivers have personalities?  From wide and slow to narrow and fast.  From trickles to torrents.  From constant to seasonal. 

Dad’s river was quiet, dependable.  And deep.  More Mississippi than Rio Grande.  Or maybe Amazon, just not that long. Steady.  Never leaving us wondering how we would find it when we showed up on its banks.  Never causing us fear that we would be carried away with an unpredictable wave of emotion and drama.  Strong and sure.  If you ever had the opportunity to let him wrap his big ol callused hand over yours, you probably know what I mean. 

It’s not easy to discover the beginning of river.  Somehow that remains out of reach.  You can trace it back to the headwaters, but that’s just where a lot of other streams come together, not really where it starts.  The actual source is well beyond that.  It’s elusive.  But it’s always an adventure to see how close you can get to the beginning.  We probe into Dad’s past sometimes to find out how what made him the river he became.  Not sure we’ll ever be able to find that spot.  But the hike is interesting.

The path of Dad’s river isn’t so difficult to discern.  It makes numerous loops through the western Kansas plains.  Drops though Idaho and Colorado.  And Oklahoma.  It wraps around a certain house this side of Dodge City.  They named it Touch of Hope.  If you look closely, you’ll notice that house is on an island, there’s a river all around it.  There is a schoolhouse down the road that looks much the same.  If you want to visit those places, you are going to get wet.  You can’t help it. The water may even get in your eyes and run down your cheeks.  And that’s ok.

And it ran smack dab through a thing called family.  Absolutely dissected it.  And now that it’s gone, there is a canyon there instead.  Look at a picture of a broken heart and you’ll see a crack in the middle.  That used to be a river, and it joined and nourished the two halves that were not complete without it.  Maybe our hearts aren’t broken as much as just not whole. 

Dad’s river wasn’t as long as we thought it should be.  But quantity has little bearing on influence or effectiveness.  Somehow it seems complete.  Like additional time wouldn’t have increased the net result.  Just how does that work?

You can walk to the place where the river meets the sea.  Dad’s river wasn’t much different.  We can identify the spot.  I should know.  I’m sitting about 3 feet from it right now.  Right where it flowed out and joined that innumerable company of witnesses. 

But here’s the good part.  That water comes back over our land.  The water of memories.  Don’t ask me how it works because I can’t explain it.  Somehow the warmth of the sun brings it back.  Just in a different form.  Sometimes it’s a gentle rain.  Sometimes a Kansas thunderstorm, takes you by surprise.  If we stand out in it and let it do what it’s meant to do, we’ll get wet.  We tend to want to dry our tears, to wipe them away, to erase the trails they make.  Maybe we should leave them, let them run down freely.  Be soaked by them.   Maybe they do the most good if they fall off our face onto the land that was once watered by that river.  They can form streams again and join the river that is our life.  Then the flow of our river can increase and water the land that we pass through.  And the water that was once Dad will nourish others through us.  That’s the beauty and mystery of water.  You can’t destroy it.  It’s around us, under us, and it floats above us.  It goes away and then comes back.  It refreshes and washes us.  And it runs down our cheeks.  And if you try, you can taste the salt in your tears.  That’s just a little souvenir the rain brings from that thing called the ocean, where all those rivers end.   Saltwater.  Bitter but so sweet.  Let it refresh and cleanse you.