Standing there in that river, overwhelmed by the beauty that surrounded me, I did a foolish, wondrous thing. I laid down.
I could say that it was the cold water temporary freezing my ability to think. I could use the wind as an excuse. But the real reason was that I was simply overwhelmed at God’s creation.
All of this earth is God’s. He made the garden of my soul and set me to live within it. He has made the shadowy forest that attempts to infringe upon the precious light that reaches my garden. He has made the meadows through which I trod and the birds that soar above them. All of this world has been made by God, and somehow I manage to live in some blissful state of ignorance, failing to recognize all the majesty that is inherent in this creation. For some reason, standing in the cold stream brought awe and wonder into the forefront of my mind. There I stood, in solitude and amazement, suddenly feeling so tiny in the face of it all and so overwhelmed that this God loves me.
For some reason, that gave me the sudden urge to bathe. Not to sit and be still in a tranquil environment, but to suddenly try and wipe every crumb of indecency from the surface of my body, and perhaps from within as well. The cold water was no longer an obstacle to my immersion; despite the shallow depth of the stream I covered myself in its waters, frantically splashing the invigorating current over myself, as though some sudden wetness will wash the stains of all those years away. For some minutes I went through frenzied motions, certain that my own hands could remove the dirt, when God spoke through the river.
It wasn’t the voice of God booming down from on high. Rather it was the gentle singing that somehow broke through my frenetic mind and reminded me that all of the earth is God’s, and that God’s grace abounds. My own mortal hands cannot do what divine ones have already done. There are no motions I can copy to save my precious skin from the fate it deserves, for the fate I deserve has been destroyed and no longer holds sway. I am destined for a far more glorious one, because the God who created me also restored me.
When that song returned my concentration to God, all I could do was kneel, sopping wet there in the river, lift up my hands, and thank the King for coming in. Who is this God, this Lord of hosts and King of glory?
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