dispatch #4 - when the river rose

in the place I call home
it started with rain.
then more.
then the kind of silence that comes before something breaks.
the kind of stillness that makes you feel small.

the river rose faster than they said it would.
faster than we could watch it.
roads vanished. trees bent. the sky turned the color of old pewter.
i stood on the porch with coffee in hand, watching it come.

not far from here, a summer camp sat along the bend.
a place that’s meant for laughter. singing. the kind of memories you hold tight all your life.
when the water came, it came hard. came without asking.
some didn’t make it.
some did.
and we hold all of them in our prayers.

neighbors opened their doors.
folks with flatbeds and tractors became lifeboats.
church kitchens turned into shelters.
and the ones who didn’t have much gave what they could.

my kids asked why god let it happen.
i didn’t know what to say.
just pulled them close and let them cry.

truth is, we don’t get to know why.
we just carry the weight.
we show up.
we remember.

i think about that camp often now.
the joy it held.
the sorrow it carries.
and how mercy sometimes looks like the hands that hold us after.

the rain’s gone for now.
but the river remembers.
and so do we.