10/17/2024
Monday morning, on the banks of the frigid Kickapoo river, there stood a silent woman, perfectly still, like a midwife holding towels and blankets as though she would soon swaddle a newborn baby.
That wasn’t far from the truth.
For into the icy waters on that cold morning had waded two young women, one after another.
And the air being cold and the water being colder, it did involuntarily cause each of them to gasp in turn from the experience. All who pass through such waters themselves cannot help but to inhale deeply, cannot restrain some deep inner instinct to breathe in as deeply as possible from every corner of their lungs. The sort of breath so deep that in moments like that it is easier to be silent than to talk.
Barefooted they delicately picked their way further out into the stream waddling carefully one step at a time atop the slippery and jagged rocks below.
And then, one after another, they were buried in the water. Plunged into it. Immersed.
But it was not common creek water. Not this day. For on this day it had been consecrated, hallowed for a supernatural use by unseen angels. In this water, there was not just silt and minnows but a heavenly power to sweep away past mistakes and a gentle current to carry off guilt and shame.
And with a whisper and a prayer, there was a plunge into the water but for a splendid moment in time so that eternity might emerge in season.
The waters of the creek becoming like some heaven-sent flood to douse and drench a field with a treasure hidden in it and awaken a seed buried deep within that it might sprout and blossom in time with the fulness of the beauty of heaven and bring forth much fruit.
It was no rabbit’s foot. Neither was it a finish line.
Like all baptisms it was a starting line of a new life with God. Listening to God. Hearing God. Learning that He is not far. Beginning to partake of an abundant life filled with the enduring riches of joy and love and peace and goodness. The things of eternity.
And one at a time the two young ladies came up from the waters, picking their way once more in a new direction through the stones and up unto the shore until they were received into the waiting arms of the woman with those towels as though a heavenly midwife had been waiting all along for them to come this direction. Only waiting for this moment to arrive.
There were no hymns this day. No large crowd. No verbal hyperventilation of manic syllables when silence is to breathe.
Only a quiet witness and whisper of unseen things just beneath the surface. And like those stones in the creek bottom, unseen but very real.
And without pomp and circumstance, lacking any official certificates signed and notarized, and in the absence of marching bands, on an anonymous Creekside you’d hardly notice two young women plunged themselves into a bright new future.
In this day and age of photography and social media; it seems that baptisms and weddings and so much of life has become performances rather than experiences. Weddings especially have become performances rather than experiences. And the participants, the bride or groom, minds are busy with playing some role to cameras rather than experiencing their wedding day.
There were no performances this chilly day. Only an experience leading to more experiences.
One where holy angels will help them find their way into a new life.
Congratulations Rachel and Ryssa. You will find your way in wonder and goodness. I’m sure of it.
To those who are my friends, I solicit your prayers for these young ladies.
And to all those who pray for these efforts and help to make things like this financially possible I say thank you. For without your support such distant travels would be out of reach. Godspeed.
