Today I woke up with the sun. I started the coffee pot, leaned against the counter, folded my arms, listened to the steady breathing of the five sleeping girls in the next room. I’m going to miss them.
I put my clothes in boxes, loaded my car, took my time to let memories flood in quietly. I always hate leaving the good places in life.
I wish I could naturally be one of those people who let go easily. Letting go is something I want to be good at, to always live with open hands, quietly and courageously embracing whatever life dishes out. But it goes against the grain of my nature, so I fight to release.
Today, I’m consciously deciding to not hold on tightly to this past season running the river in Southern Colorado. I’m choosing to not pervert the goodness of it by willing it to last longer or be more than it already was. Instead, I want to dwell on everything it already was, the goodness and the hardness and the richness of it. There is too much GOOD not to forget, too much GOOD that I don’t want to slip through the cracks without giving thanks for what it deserves.
At the end of his life, Abraham Joshua Heschel said that he didn’t ever ask for wisdom or fame out of life—he simply asked for wonder, and God gave it to Him. I love that. And as I look back on this summer, I feel that now. This season was so filled with wonder, near to the brim, and I can’t move forward without acknowledging all of its sweet graces.
I’ll always hold close to me memories
of running the Arkansas in freezing temperatures in May,
high water all of June,
rain storms in July.
Evening runs down Paintbrush Trail and homemade sweet potato burritos afterward.
Early mornings around coffee tables reading the Word and sipping hot coffee.
Late nights of highs and lows and rich conversation.
Ganja Farmer and setting up tents and walking across the Sweetwater Bridge over and over and over again.
Hearing God’s voice on the rock, by the river, in the night.
Eliyah, and Roger, and Eric, and the power of change that’s birthed out of a shared story.
Seeing Mark’s soft side, and realizing how much he cares.
Laughing about embarrassing river stories with Nicole.
Food packing and logging river miles and moonlight runs with Anna.
Meeting fear face to face and moving forward anyway.
Double nesting with Walker, sleeping riverside, Honeyberry Backwoods under the moon.
Mostly, I’ll remember the relationships, the authenticity, the adventure, that this community has given. I’m leaving this place feeling equal parts challenged and filled up, and I recognize each small gift for what it is—nothing more than sweet, sweet grace.
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