On the far edge of winter

a frozen lake quakes and groans

as a warm sunrise hints at Spring.

“¡Más mezcla!, ”the masons cry and we mix sand, soil and cement.

Water dipped from drums pail by pail.

So many bricks. So much mortar.

Pail by pail we dry up a family’s only drinking, only washing.

“Toma la agua,”the mother says, risking all—“for my childrens”—to set a new foundation.

Tonight she will go to the stream,

pail by pail, starting again toward survival.

Tomorrow, “¡Más mezcla!,”and we will again risk with her

to build these children a home.

Fly fishing is not always a spirit-rich experience for me. In fact, it might be telling that I first picked up a rod simply because I thought dropping a fly into inviting spots might give me something interesting to do while I was bored with not catching fish. I like its practicality, so I keep at it and trust that it is important to my soul. I find that it entertains my mind and hands when I need to transition off life’s freeway onto a slow dirt road. Occasionally, on days like this one, the practice itself falls away and takes with it all my seemingly important thinking. In those precious moments, I realize anew that I am standing—and always have been—in the nearness of God. Fishing the fly can take me between mountains or over impressive stones, but always, always I am beside waters and among trees. Reflecting on what God speaks to me in beautiful moments like these, I know I need to listen more closely to the waters and the trees.

We are pails of many colors

shapes and marvelous designs,

searching for somethings—anythings

which will fill us to the brim,

sharing one unfortunate flaw:

We are pails of many holes.

The leaks of imperfection

worsen by hurts and fears

until more is lost than

gained by fetching.

“Pour life into me,” we cry,

“which I might hold and carry.”

and when all passes through

we weep, “If only this or that,

a bit more and fast, then

I would have life to give.”

All the while something

quietly wells up,

a flood rising all around

seeps into every pail,

entering first low openings.

Now within and around

still rising a tide consumes the world.

Higher it flows, fills pails

outside in,

up to the brim, then beyond.

Feigning emptiness we miss this:

we are holy pails submerged

in living waters.