We live in a small town right on the Mississippi River, as it joins the Rum River at a place called Peninsula Point. The mighty Mississipi cuts a path right through the middle of our great country, it receives flowage from lakes and other tributaries along the way, ending in the Gulf of Mexico.
If only the river could talk. It would tell tales we couldn’t begin to write – of determination and industry; natives lining the shores; explorers, voyageurs and lumber passing down from town to town. There are stories of paddle boats, kayakers, fishermen and sailors. There are the dark tales of the lowest of living creatures, lurking in the shadows, stumbling with drunken footsteps, looking to end a life. There are the tales of redemption as one is baptized in the water, or ashes of a departed loved one are tossed on its surface.
For those who love to paint, it becomes great fodder for creativity. For young and old lovers, it’s a place for a rendezvous. For children it turns into a playground, where they may learn to fish for the first time. For those without a home, it becomes a temporary refuge.
In it all, God flows with it, carrying all of men’s stories in His hands.