At the water’s edge

I kept going to the river to pray.

I’d kneel at the water’s edge to wash my hands, or I’d wade knee-deep into the cold, rushing current until it would eddy around my legs. It was never enough to clean away my guilt and shame.

Like my southern Baptist gramma used to say, “a little sprinklin’ of water ain’t enuf, you gotta be bathed in the Spirit.”

I needed a true, washed in the Blood baptism. I needed to go under the water and be held there. I needed to tumble over the rocks until I was polished clean.