The water is beckoned downward by forces of gravity and momentum much faster than it can even realize. Soaking oneself in the Spirit, jumping off the rock and letting go of the bank's branches sends a man careening down a path that he himself cannot determine but can only discover. He does not moderate the speed, but has rather already released his right to decide it. He can not predict much ahead, but only recognize the patterns of how the riverbed tends to curve and what affect the rocks have on his limbs each time the waterfall renders injury unavoidable.
In my own life, my desire is to be released to that rushing journey, trusting that God will provide the areas of calm water where I can rest and my wounds will be nursed. Continually, though, and without my plan, I know that God's river will always be a step ahead of me. I will not be dragged or pulled, but rather swept away--sometimes with my eyes smashed shut, and sometimes whimpering in fear, but always gripping tightly to His hand as we go down together. The lowest places are both the most and least lonely--but the ironic joy of the low places is that God's promise is that I'll never truly be released into the hands of the true lowest places. Just as jumping off a cliff may feel like a complete release into death, God's promise is that the parachute cord will never fail and my two feet will undoubtedly hit the ground in the end, to a place where death is just a memory and tears are no more. With this promise, I plug my nose and cannonball into the water, resting in the hope that He's sweeping me away towards eternity with Him.
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