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I was not there when these foundations were laid, or the rock beds were made. I did not determine where to chisel into layers of color or spread clouds to hover casting shadows that play on waters below. They flow within bounds set, braiding wet and dry, reflecting sun and sky, revealing both the proud and shy of creation. I am so small, and tremble at the pending chaos of it all, when actually what silences me is the commanding order. “Waters, come here and no further.” Elements and matter obey a Master who weaves— what cannot be held in my hands — like strands just by His word. And I’m just the observer, a mere collector of works I cannot afford, but can touch and climb and wade through and discover. Things too wonderful for me.

Inspired by the braided, glacial Toklat River in Denali National Park, Alaska. Compelled by Job 38.

Braided Waters

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