Letter: At the River

The word for ‘behold’ in Hebrew means “to gaze, to perceive, to contemplate.”

To ‘behold’ then suggests that time, a relatively long time, is given to look thoughtfully, profoundly even, peering into the distance.

To ‘behold’ also suggests then that you are alone with your thoughts, and in a setting where what you see and hear and feel can significantly impact who you are, the person you are becoming, provide perspective, enable you to decide what is important and what is not.

So it was for me at the river.

On the four miles of switchbacks down to the river I had not encountered another human being. Nor would I at the river, nor during my return.

I could hear the faint sound of the river as I descended, the indicator of its presence far below gradually growing louder with every bend in the trail, until finally, standing at its shore, I was immersed in the sound of rushing water.

No one for miles and miles, just me.

Except for the marked trail down which I had come and an occasional boot print left however long ago in the rare spots of sand along the rocky shore, I saw myself as the first to discover the beauty of this place.

And then there was another sound. Brief, occasional, but like the sound of rolling thunder.

The sky however was cloudless blue, no threatening storm brewing nor blowing from off the mountain.

Then it was I realized it was the power of the river loosening the smaller boulders and shoving them along downriver, the rumbling sound the result of their upheaval as they tumbled over and over.

So it was that I entered in my journal my prayer that my grandchildren would find in me one unmoved by the forces of popular opinion; not swayed by cultural shifts and changes in political course and discourse; not awash in a world where torrents of rhetoric shove and shout.

Rather rock solid.

The river will just have to go around me.

I’m not moving.

This is what I ‘beheld.’

At the river.