It's time to finish crossing the river

I have been walking through a season of life where I thought I had crossed a particularly hazardous river and left it safely behind, but as life moves on and the season's pass, I realize I have only just made it to the sandbar in the middle.  

I found a false sense of safety on the large sandbar, the air was cool, no mosquitos or bugs were biting at my neck, I found driftwood to build a fire and make a comfortable place to rest and recover. But seasons change, and winter has come to an end.  As the weather turns warm and the snow begins to melt, the water comes flooding down the mountain poised to engulf my safe, sanctuary of a sandbar and wash away the makeshift life I built after the long and draining swim.  

Have you ever seen a tree growing on a sandbar?  They can't because they never have time to grow roots that will withstand the rushing waters of the spring melt.  A sandbar is only temporary; a place to catch your breath before you continue to swim the wide expanse of the cold angry river.  It was time to finish my crossing- as risky as it may be.

This river formed over half my life ago, it started out as a small trickle of water that quickly turned into a stream and then a lively and life-giving river. The river forged two tributaries that are growing and gaining strength every day, but they still need to be poured into to survive.  I can cross my river but must find a way to do so without draining the two smaller tributaries dry.  The biggest river can be a vibrant life source, but it can also take life when the waters turn dangerous as it tumbles over half-hidden rocks and past dead debris or if damns are built and stop the life-giving flow at the source.  

Growing up in Florida, I have been a water babe all my life.  We lived on a lake, vacationed at the beach, caught lobsters in the Keys, and tubed down the Ichetucknee River.  Water brings joy, fun, and good memories.  Water isn’t a dangerous place or something to fear when you’ve learned to swim and know how to navigate the tides or pull.  I had never been afraid of the water before, but the longer my river stays merged with another and it grows longer and stretches wider, it becomes dangerous with rapids hidden around sharp corners and rocks that don't move when you hit them.

My two tributaries are precious to me, and I can guide their path, so they give life and sustain the land.   But I must finish crossing my treacherous river first.  I need to be on dry, stable land that isn't positioned to be swept away with the spring melt.  It’s time for me to finish the crossing and walk the banks of my two tributaries until I find the riverbed that is meant for us.   

For more conversation please go to my Abundantly Enough: The Perfectly-Imperfect Woman Facebook group.  You will find many others to support you in a safe environment.    

Amy S  


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