Kitchen Table Wisdom

Have you ever noticed how there is something different about watching water when you have known its power?

Most of us are drawn to water. We linger beside streams, listening as they murmur over stones or rush around a bend. We sit along the shore of a lake, watching the wind ripple its surface. We listen as rain patters gently on the roof or drums against the windows during a summer storm.

Water has a way of drawing us in and holding us in awe.

It can refresh us and restore us. It gives life.

But water is never still for long. From slow drip to pounding surf, it is always moving, always shaping, always carrying a tremendous force that can bring both life and death.

For the third summer in a row, friends in northern Pennsylvania have faced devastating flooding. Roads have disappeared. Homes have been filled with muddy water. Familiar places have been changed in a matter of hours.

Last year, one of those floods took the life of a friend, and his body wasn’t found.

For almost a year, his family lived with unanswered questions and unimaginable grief. Then, after all that time, the waters that had taken him from them revealed what they held beneath the surface. What had been hidden was brought into the light, allowing his family to finally lay him to rest.

It did not erase their sorrow. It did not take away the pain of losing someone they loved. But it brought a measure of closure and peace after months of uncertainty.

Water has a way of reminding us that life is fragile.

It has that kind of power—and more.

Water has the power to hide.

It has the power to reveal.

It can carry away what we desperately want to hold onto, and it can uncover what we thought was lost forever.

It can quietly smooth a rough stone over years. It can slowly change the course of a river. It can reshape the terrain beneath our feet. And sometimes, in a matter of moments, it can forever change the lives of those caught in its path.

Sometimes its power is subtle.
Sometimes it is catastrophic.
Sometimes it is majestic.

And I believe it is always holy.

Not because every flood is God’s will or every tragedy has an explanation. They do not. But because water has been woven into God’s story from the very beginning.

Scientists tell us that water has been present since the earliest history of our planet. Scripture begins with these words:

“The Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.” (Genesis 1:2 NIV)

Before there were trees or birds, mountains or people, there was water. Before creation burst into color and life, God’s Spirit moved over the deep.

Water was part of the foundation of the world God was bringing into being—the foundation that would one day sustain every living thing.

Throughout Scripture, water is never just water.

It is where God creates, where God disciplines, where God delivers, where God meets His people, and where God promises renewal.

And Scripture reminds us that even water has boundaries.

In the book of Job, God speaks of the sea and says, “This far you may come and no farther; here is where your proud waves halt.”

The One who created all things is also the One who holds the waters.

Perhaps that is the real power of water—not simply what it can do, but what it teaches us.

What water teaches us that power is more than force.

Water teaches us about creation: its beauty, its strength, and its interconnectedness.

Water teaches us about the Creator: the One who hovered over the waters in the beginning and who remains present through every storm.

And water teaches us about ourselves: that we are connected, that we are dependent, and that we are held by a God whose presence is deeper than any waters we face.

Maybe that is the gift of its power.

It reminds us that even when the waters rise, God is still with us.

Cathy D.