The Buckhannon River, and the River of Life

John 7:

37 On the last day, that great day of the feast, Jesus stood and cried out, saying, “If anyone thirsts, let him come to Me and drink. 38 He who believes in Me, as the Scripture has said, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.” 39 But this He spoke concerning the Spirit, whom those believing in Him would receive; for the Holy Spirit was not yet given, because Jesus was not yet glorified. 

The Buckhannon River has flowed by my life since its beginning, and after decades of distance it is now once again the first thing I can see (and hear if I brave the cold) as the night melts into daylight. (Scroll down two posts if that doesn’t make sense). In Bundibugyo for most of my adult life, we were just up the bank and across the road from the Nyahuka River. Both are obscure waterways that nevertheless mean life to the towns nearby, sources of water and laundry and fishing and escape from the heat, pathways of transportation in the past, threads that hold communities in place. 

So when the lectionary this week included Jesus framing the Gospel as a drink to quench thirst, that certainly sounds like good news. And when the drink is so refreshing the drinker becomes a river of water for others . . . beautiful image of the Abrahamic "blessed to be a blessing".

And yet a river does not generate the water, a river channels the water. Rivers depend on rains. On clouds, storms, snows, melt, that seeps into springs and tickles into streams. A river rises and falls, and it’s not the river’s choice. Sometimes our river is low and murky, sluggish, with exposed rocks and logs, depleted. Sometimes our river rustles past with clarity and peace. And sometimes it is racing and churning, powerful and unpredictable. 

A good reminder for a life of missional service. We are the channel, but not in control of the source. Sometimes we are barely trickling by, and sometimes a prayer for rain leads to a chaos of current. 

In East and Central Africa, multiple countries feel vulnerably dangerously depleted of hope, of help . . yet change could bring chaos. Our DRC team remains evacuated to Uganda, even as Uganda sent their own army into DRC. People all along the Albertine Rift face high prices, lack of food or vaccines or fuel, displacement from their homes (7 million in the broad area, almost a million more since December, and 100,000 who have crossed borders to become refugees). The river of aid feels dry, due to the overwhelming need and the dangers of response but also the American political climate. We are all in a cautious inhale to know if this is the new normal, if the tense search for a balance of incompatible powers . . all he while knowing that a downpour of war could drench us all. 

Every day we try to be supportive at distance, to care and pray and call, work on budgets and meetings and emails. To be a river of blessing for those we love, and those we barely know. Yet our own river feels drained too, by weeks of intense medicines (3 now) and the frequent drives to our appointments, preparing for the next stage of daily intensive radiation. 

Last year I prayed Lord, enlarge my heart. This year the promise of Jesus to simply flow through our hearts sounds more possible. Though we are low, weary, and heavy, we need only to wait for rain, in our Area and in our medical care, through prayers the Spirit can bring life. Let us be waterways.