The trail was long and covered with overgrowth. A blue jay called out as it swooped overhead and the breeze performed a dance across the mountain man’s face. Inhaling with the wind and exhaling with the rustle of leaves, he eyed his destination: a stream flowing over the warm summer ground yards ahead of him. A bead of sweat encroached on his raised eyebrow and he smiled.
He needed that rushing cold mountain water as the midday sun pressed down heating him beyond bearablity.
He began moving faster over the trail, dodging limbs, snapping twigs, and forgetting subtlety with the leaves grabbing at him in a effort to hold him in place with their viney hands. Despite their fingers on him, he evaded them, unconcerned and longing now only for that rewarding, refreshing, reviving water.
Finally relenting, the continuing trail opened up to a clearing, holding the elusive stream therein. The mountain man dropped the burdensome pack he carried, loosing the weight that slowed him from reaching the water. With enthusiasm as high as the mountains he was born from, he scooped up into his hands the most wonderful feeling water can give a hot face in the heat of summer. Breathing great breaths of satisfaction and relief a song came to his mind and he hummed “Here comes the sun” for the briefest of moments, until the pool of water just outside the stream caught his attention and he leaned down to peer upon it.
His reflection peered back, glassy eyes looking into glassy eyes at first, but changing now into deep brown. This face was not his, yet more than familiar it was. Love like fire looked at him, the lips moving now, speaking, “My son, come and drink my water,” And the mountain man knew it was the water of life, with God himself staring, beckoning.
Laying flat on his belly now, lowering his lips to the water, he drank in the Lord of Lords and King of Kings. But he was not drinking, he was falling. Falling into the pool and into love unknown by the world.
Finally, the mountain man was whole.
