Drawn to Water
Sometimes creation preaches the sermon we most need to hear.
For most of history, drawing water meant lowering a bucket into a well. Today it more often means feeling pulled toward a river, a marsh, or the sea. After seven weeks on the road, I suspect the two ideas are not as different as they appear. We are drawn to water because something within us still recognizes it as a source of life.
Deep into our current adventure, we’ve visited a lot of towns, toured multiple historic sites and read scores of museum panels. But my strongest impression is not any typically touristy landmark. It is water.
Across American states and Canadian provinces, we have walked beside quiet marshes alive with birdsong and hidden life. We have crossed rivers that carried entire communities toward the sea. We have lingered beside small creeks whose gentle movement seemed almost effortless. We have stood on ocean shores where waves crash against rocks with awe-inspiring force.
Water, like people, changes form and personality from place to place, yet remains unmistakably itself. Perhaps that is why human beings are drawn to it.
In this photograph, John and Charlotte are walking toward what appears to be little more than a trickle crossing a broad expanse of sand. At first glance, it seems insignificant. Yet anyone who has spent time near the Bay of Fundy knows better. That small stream is connected to one of the most powerful tidal systems on earth. Given enough time, the landscape before us will be transformed.
The tides have been among the greatest teachers of this journey.
At low tide, harbors appear abandoned. Fishing boats rest awkwardly on mud and stone. Creeks shrink to narrow channels. Vast stretches of ocean floor emerge into view, revealing ancient fossils.
Then, with predictable regularity, the water returns and a few hours later the same harbor is full. The same boats float freely beside the docks. What appeared empty becomes abundant. What seemed diminished becomes renewed.
The lesson is compelling. Much of human anxiety is rooted in the fear that what we need is disappearing. Time, energy, opportunity, hope, love, even faith can feel like resources slipping away from us. Yet nature repeatedly reminds us that absence and loss are not always the same thing. Sometimes what appears to be gone is simply moving through a different season.
The longer we travel, the more convinced I become that water is not merely necessary for life. It helps restore life. Researchers now speak of the cognitive and emotional benefits of “blue spaces.” Time spent near water lowers stress, calms the nervous system, and improves mental well-being. Long before scientists measured the effect, people understood it instinctively. They settled beside rivers, gathered at lakeshores, prayed near springs, and sought out the sea when they needed perspective.
Perhaps water teaches because it embodies truths we struggle to learn. It adapts without surrendering its nature, finding pathways around obstacles. It reminds us that strength and gentleness can coexist.
After weeks on the road, the greatest gift I have received from water’s many faces has been the renewal of my soul.
It has slowed the internal noise and quietened my anxious mind. I feel reconnected to creation and my Creator. Whether marsh, creek, river, or ocean, water calls me to remember that we all belong to something larger than ourselves.
It compels me to keep walking toward it.