From the time I was a little girl, I have loved the sound of running water because it calls to me. We had creek in our neighborhood that we had to cross on the way to the pool. I regularly dillydallied on the way home to visit with the creek. In the mountains, I knew where the springs were, which fed the creeks, which fed the streams, which fed the rivers. It was there I became a creek-walker; a wild child who rolled up my pants legs and plunged my feet into ice cold mountain streams. I took off, upstream or downstream, depending on the thickness of the foliage. Somehow, once my feet were numb, I was fully engaged in the conversation of the waters.

I was amazed at the creatures that lived under the rocks, which I overturned with regularity. Always trying to find salamanders and crawdads. Smooth-skinned lizards? Little lobsters…in creeks? Who knew! All this with the water soothingly running all around my ankles. The miracles of striders who walked on top of the water. And the rocks…all shapes and sizes. Smooth. Mossy. Slippery. Jagged. Occasionally, snakes of which I had been taught who was poisonous and who wasn’t. Back then, I had no issue grabbing a snake to take a closer look. (I grew out of that stage!) The tadpoles. The trout. The frogs. Tiny little ones and ones the size of my hand.

In the water, I felt like God was talking to me. Not with words, but with joyful babbling. Showing me all this cool stuff. It was a whole nother world. At summer camp, when we had our daily devotions, I headed for the creek every morning. Throwing off my shoes as I approached the altar. God was there, even when I didn’t read the lesson.

It was a Holy place. Not holy like church, with its religious trappings and God inside of boxes. Holy, like real. Like God having a conversation with a young girl who liked slimy creatures. Holy, like a special connection between heaven and human. Creeks were sacred places. Divine encounters took place when my toes were in the sandy dirt and there was a canopy overhead of mountain laurel.

I have never forgotten the sound of the waters from those early days. I graduated from creek walking to river rafting. To waterfall walks. Any place the water rushes from on high to down low. Such boisterous joy comes as the drops throw themselves down. Their voices still call to me. “Come and play. Come and listen. Come and chat. Come and be healed.”

After a storm like we had this week, all the rivers are in full party mode. They are rushing, gurgling, rippling, and splashing. It’s a free-for-all. My morning walk was brisk and cold. The river would not fade into the background today. It was commanding my attention. I was tempted, ever so briefly, to take off my shoes and wade into this Holy ground. The cold prevented me. But the river was still singing its song to me. Telling me not to worry about the storms because they are needed. They are life giving.

The water falls are roaring. There is no stopping the force of the river. It fills the creek banks to overflowing with the dangerous joy of the Lord. Which is my strength. Which is my healing. The sound of many waters is my Holy place.

His head and his hairs were white like wool, as white as snow; and his eyes were as a flame of fire. And his feet like unto fine brass, as if they burned in a furnace; and his voice as the sound of many waters. Rev 1:15

And I heard as it were the voice of a great multitude, and as the voice of many waters, and as the voice of mighty thundering, saying, Alleluia: for the Lord God omnipotent reigns. Rev. 19:6

And, behold, the glory of the God of Israel came from the way of the east: and his voice was like a noise of many waters: and the earth shined with his glory. Ez. 43:2