We were standing at the edge of a steep bank. Late afternoon sunlight slanted gold through pine branches over our heads, highlighting the moist hummocks of brilliant green moss creeping along the slanting forest floor. Below us, a river, satiated with a deluge of rapidly melting snow, rushed it’s wild, joyful way down to bigger waters.
The music of its abundant fullness reminded me of this verse:
“If anyone is thirsty, let him come to Me and drink. He who believes in Me, as the Scripture said, ‘From his innermost being will flow rivers of living water.'” (John 7:37-38)
A little river like this, wildly overflowing with springtime run-off, is exactly what I picture a life looking like as the fulfillment this verse. A life so brimful of Christ that it can’t even hold the goodness back—it pours out in utter abandon, literally gushing with the joy of it.
And the good news is: in our case, the source never diminishes like the banks of melting snow eventually will for this little river. The invitation is always open, the supply is endless. The only way we can possibly dry up is if we quit coming and drinking.
And how do you come and drink? It’s simple. Spend as much time as you can with Him. Read His Word. Talk to Him.
“Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be filled.” (Matthew 5:6)
May the river of living water that flows from you as a result be one hundred times more wildly beautiful and joyful than this one. 
I’ve heard him call the question distinctively across the lake at dusk before. Or sometimes its from the swamp along the winding stream bed across the field.
The pussy willows popped out early this year during a premature but short-lived warm spell, and have since seemed to be somewhat frozen in time as they wait for the warm weather to return. I happened upon these while I was walking along a stream stalking an otter, who I’m pretty sure was laughing at my clumsy attempts to avoid detection. He wasn’t interested in having his picture taken. These spring beauties were much more obliging, however, and I was happy to come home from my photographic ramblings not entirely empty-handed!
So—remember those 
Some days, as Paul goes on to admit, are harder than others (and trust me, the hardships he had to face would make this unpleasant sick day at home seem like a picnic in the park!),
Whenever I watch green shoots rise from dry, brown bulbs buried in the earth and burst into triumphant bloom, it’s hard not to see a picture of the Resurrection.
At first I was disappointed. But then, as I sat in the sun porch the next morning, watching a wet and pearly gray dawn wash over the dining room table still wearing it’s candles and best white tablecloth from Sunday’s celebration, I suddenly realized that it was okay after all. Maybe, even, it was for the best.
Rejoicing Hills 