First published in Collected Magazine Issue 1 / January 15, 2020 I tiptoe barefoot through the carved riverbed. The cold cascades over my feet and numbs them from the fractured rock’s razor-sharp edges. I push forward calculating the depth of each step and ensure a solid foothold. The river’s rush both pleases and frightens. How much do I control? When do I let go and abandon stability for the weightless glide atop the water and when do I fight my way back to shore? The river is my playground. I recall rope-swing leaps into Oyster River potholes. I remember fly-fishing lines swishing back and forth over Gold River rapids. I relive cousin escapades on the Campbell River canyon view suspension bridge. Cut rock, meandering waters, and tall evergreen trees form the backdrop of adventure, awe and wonder. But the river is also my tempest. Panicked bobbing breath. Arms scrambling to grasp something firm. Terror in knowing this surging flow carries no empathy. I will drown. Sure ground finds me eventually. My Aunt Jackie never comes back. Her car tumbles off a dirt road and rolls down an embankment landing upside down in a creek. Unconscious from the brutal descent, she sleeps as quiet waters pool in her car and steal her breath second by second. I’m nine. She’s sixteen. We’re more sisters than aunt and niece. My days feel empty without her presence at the breakfast table, our squabbles over dish duty, and her reassuring hands over mine as we grip the handlebars of our neighbour’s dirt bike and speed through pebble and tree in the forest beside our shared home. Water holds both abundance and power. It’s playful splashes and laughter. It’s lush grasses and wildflowers. But it’s also a stone-hearted thief and a torrent of tears. I long for someone to take all this pain. Reverse the struggle. Erase the uncertainty. So I enter a metaphorical river at twelve, a whirlpool hot-tub in the dusty parking lot of our small church. The adjacent highway leads to the pulp and paper mill. Steam billows out of its stack and a sulphur stench drifts over the city. With it comes memories of Dad’s steel-toed boots and hard-hat five o’clock exits to our parked Suburban bursting with conversation and bickering children. This baptismal ambiance lacks sparkle but I can’t wait for my turn. For heaven to meet me in the middle of ceremony and symbol. What’s to fear in this surrender? Of course, Jesus is real. Of course, I will follow him forever. My eyes fill with visions of resurrection. I forget death comes first. I let go and lean back into my pastor’s arms. The fall feels right until it doesn’t. Smack. A splitting headache. A sputtering clamber, arms reaching for the sky. I bust out of the water, sucking in air. The crowd winces. The pastor misjudged the distance between my head and the side of the jacuzzi. “Are you okay?” he asks apologetically. I manage a chuckle. “Oh...I’m fine.” The internal throbbing demands otherwise. I step out to cautious applause. A seed of doubt plants. Maybe this river isn’t steadfast, isn’t faithful, isn’t good. Where is my Pentecost? The felt presence of the Holy Spirit? The audible voice affirming my decision? New life? More like a damaged old one, a pounding head unhelped by the logging trucks’ thunderous zoom past our rented hot-tub. Should I trust this river? Deep thought drops once the bubbling pool opens for general use. I jump in with my friends and the mishap fades. Over twenty years later, I juxtapose gut-wrenching trauma with an almost comical slip because both stories speak of death and pain. They name my desire for instant fixes and mountain top highs when reality looks like heavy loss and a dusty parking lot. I wish I could run back to this little girl. To embrace her and say, “Your God’s enough.” Life will hold more pain. More loss. Darkness cloaks still but this messy immersion is how resurrection begins. It keeps you reaching for hope when faith seems a forgotten myth. Calls you back to the river when the wilderness leaves you parched and dry. Allow the water to birth beauty inside you. Look for its distributaries. Be reminded of the care-free swims, the caught trout and the breath-taking views. See Jesus in your basement bedroom as you flip through My Grief Journal for Kids and treasure how your aunt’s story intermingles with yours. Note the Holy Spirit’s presence in your favourite Sunday school teacher’s understanding hug. Perceive your Abba Father on Monday morning Elk Falls Mill drop-off drives with Dad--McDonald’s Egg McMuffins, smokestacks and theology lessons all-in-one. Keep asking questions. They don’t disqualify you from his love. Pray. God didn’t bubble wrap your head at your baptism or pave a smooth road for your aunt but he treads the heavy current with you. A companion. Follow him, even when the day-to-day looks more like a noisy highway than the awe-inducing Cano Cristales river, when the waterway’s source and destination seem mysterious and chaotic, and when the potential for flood, erosion, silt, and drought feel too close and too real. Tell yourself, Without this water nothing grows. Drink from it. Feel it roll over you, soften your edges and shape your perspectives. Knee deep in the turmoil, hear the trucks’ indifferent roar, smell the pollution and ache over all our human failure but notice Jesus’ pierced hands holding yours. Slow and steady, trade control for dependence. It’s the only way to float. Your God defeated death, rose again and lives to bring heaven to earth. To heal. His wounds rewrite your story and prove that despite our pain, even in our loss, love wins. The river flows and He is good. Copyright Chavon Barry 2019
12 Comments
Meghan Villatoro
8/17/2020 08:30:08 pm
Your style of writing is so descriptive. I felt like I could see the river scene, and the baptism going on. I really enjoyed reading this!
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8/20/2020 03:38:55 am
Wow I love how you write! Beautiful post sweet lady! ❤
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Such a beautiful post! Loved this—“Slow and steady, trade control for dependence. It’s the only way to float.” Life is scary and heart-rending at times, but Jesus is here to keep us afloat...when we give in and depend on Him! Thank you for this reminder!
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8/22/2020 08:53:16 am
First, you are a beautiful writer! The way you describe and put words on paper is breathtaking. Second, this post is soo good. I love "tread the heavy current with you". Thank you so much for taking the time to write this!
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Elizbeth Anderson
8/22/2020 11:13:00 am
Your writing paints a picture in the readers mind. Very descriptive. Beautifully written
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8/23/2020 12:44:48 am
what a unique way of writing. Thank you for sharing with us such deep and personal experiences.
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8/23/2020 04:23:11 am
Reading this felt like reading a novel. How many novels have you written? 🙂
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8/23/2020 08:34:01 am
I felt the emotion. Visualized what you shared. Brought me to tears. I loved this.
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Chavon BarryChavon is a new writer from Victoria, British Columbia. She wrestles with simple answers and is learning to listen, to be still with God. Archives
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