I stopped pouring my water into the River.
Just for ten minutes.
I stopped dipping my pitcher in it,
stopped taking allotments of that cool course
and stopped returning it shifted and warmer than before,
yet the River kept flowing.
It may not have had the unique contribution of my sweat
from my palms and my back and my head
as I tried to coax that rushing force along,
but it still rushed on just as strong.
And in those minutes I felt peace in the refrain
from taking and giving and taking again,
restraining the urge to shape and reshape
from the endless banks on which I was placed,
knowing that the River running was God’s grace
and not a beast for me alone to tame.
In those minutes I sought to see
the faces of other human beings
all armed with pitchers along the bank,
all gaining to lose and losing to gain,
and saw the River for what it was:
poured out by God but soon destined stagnant
if not pushed along by a thousand Imago Dei fragments,
if not guided and tended to by amalgamated passion
of more sweat, more pitchers than I could have imagined.
There was not a River simply given to me
that I should pick up and put down without rest,
but one flow through which all hands moved,
through which came all life and cleansing and death.
With that I took one more tranquil breath
before resuming my incremental, essential task.
different faces 