sweet Son

Wading out into cold water is a breath taking experience; Wading out into cold, swiftly running water almost heart stopping.
A river deep and green sweeps the banks of Clearwater Bible Camp. Several decades of campers dabbled at its shores and drifted off to sleep to the steady shushing of swirling current.
Late in the summer as the last of the mountain snows yield to the sun, the river level drops. Rocks glisten and eventually grey in the afternoon heat.
There, attainable at last, lies an island with a long languid stretch of sand.
Silky, white sand.
Suntanning sand and daydreaming and reading sand.
I inevitably heeded the siren call, bundled up my beach loot and waded bravely out.
It took some work balancing on the slippery rocks while icy water pulled and pulled and swirled.
I always reached a spot where I knew I couldn't go on, but realized too that going back was further.
My leg bones were achingly cold and my feet were cramped from trying to grip the smooth rocky river bed.
Somehow, I would stagger and slip my way to the distant shore.
And the sand! Oh the sand!! So powdery soft and soothingly warm.  As exotic as a Tahitian beach to my young eyes.
I don't know why that memory came to mind tonight but it seems the perfect metaphor.
There are always plans embarked on with great optimism. Then things get a bit rocky, and painful and I know I can't go on, but I can't go back either.
My arms are full of heavy things.
And at last, the sand is under my feet, the sweet Son is shining, always was shining.