Without reservoirs, pumps, or measured release—
water roils beneath the surface,
through stone, around roots,
navigating the dark.
In the slow movement along its path,
through soil, around what resists it,
a force gathers
until the ground gives way.
And then a spring, then a river—
arriving as it was set in motion,
current and lucidity together,
depth and brightness inseparable.
On the surface
light scattering,
quick movements, flickers—
what we call joy.
Below—
weight and direction,
a current that does not scatter
or turn back—
what we call peace.
The river carries both at once,
dividing nothing,
choosing neither.
And we, without instruments to measure belief,
stand at the bank,
calling that faith—
to stay.
When it reaches us,
not as droplets,
but as a rising beyond its edges,
we find ourselves entered
rather than filled.
So what can be said of hope
by those who wait for the river to be visible
before they believe it is moving?
In believing,
in the quiet continuance of it,
God gives:
joy at the surface,
quick, ungraspable,
arriving in flashes,
and peace—
lower in the water,
where nothing hurries,
where the current keeps its direction
without being seen.
And hope—
as the river
when it exceeds its banks,
moving through fields
that were never called river,
carrying its course
beyond where we stood.
—Iris Lennox
Romans 15:13
Iris Lennox 