I remember the rush of water, swift the pull on my 2 year old legs and feet. It wasn’t a deep area for us to cross the Snake River… only, at that age, I felt it could sweep me away, sweep me down and away from the firm hold of my mother’s hand. That hand that packed our afternoon picnics, picked numberless huckleberries and foraged tiny wild strawberries from that perfect spot behind the South Entrance barn. There, where that trail starts, the one we took one day and found ourselves lost. I cannot quite remember my age, but I remember the day well. How we wandered, little Jody bopping along at our side. You never showed the anxiety and worry you must have felt… instead you showed me the grace and humble strength found with prayer and the comfort that is found there, kneeling into the damp earth beside a moss covered log. I remember the sun streaks through a canopy of trees lighting your beautiful face… you smiled, with a sense of knowing it would be okay.
We found the trail, we found the barn, we found our way home… well, you did… pulling me along, holding my hand. I do not think my hands exist apart from yours. You are so a part of all I hold dear. Never letting go, so humbled by your beauty and grace… your heart-steady way of loving. Even when I could not look over and see you there, I see now how you have always been holding my hand.
When the water rushes swift, I will hold tight. As I hold my boy’s hands, I know they are holding hands also with Nana. The warmth of love found like sunlight through a forest thick, the whisper of your voice like the comfort of a prayer.
December 21st, 2020
47 River Rocks 