Paddles

I’m still thinking about paddling down the Red River Saturday, just a friend and I.

We were good in the canoe.   We were good together in the canoe.

One at the top to slide the canoe down, one at the bottom to catch.   One to steer, one to dock.

That ark carried two listeners, two story tellers, two pain bearers, two seekers, two warrior-princesses {think Arwen from LOR or Leia from Star Wars}.

Strong enough strokes to glide by the parties a happenin’ on the river; strong enough strokes to allow one listener to rest the arm every so often; strong enough strokes to paddle on, eyes wide as to what the wild might offer: deer? turtles? answers? restoration? hope? a companion on the journey? a friend to fight beside?  {After all we’re not supposed to do this thing called life alone}.

 

In the quiet of the river, you drew us in.
Under the canopy of trees, you gave us shade.
At the foot of jagged walls of rock, you painted us perspective.
Through rocks and fallen tress, you parted for us the Red River.
With the swiftness of the current, you carried us on.
Armed with paddles, we played our part in the adventure.


After all these years, I find myself still in the boat {sigh of relief}
But after all these years, I’m not in the boat alone anymore.
And after all these years, I’m not just taking rest and refuge in the boat; now I’m taking a paddle. Now I’m sharing the load, down the river of living water.

There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.  — Anais Nin