Buddhist Catholic Contemplative Evangelical General Christian Hindu Jewish Latter-day Saint Muslim New Visions Progressive Christian

Beliefs

Topics

Columnists

Resource Library

Research Tools

Video

Podcasts

Thought Readers

Faith In Media Tracker

Newsletters

Ad-Free & Subscriber Log-In Subscription Support

Follow Patheos

Home
Catholic
I Saw the Water Flowing

I Saw the Water Flowing

Last updated on: March 13, 2024 at 2:40 am by Mary Pezzulo

0 Comments

I Saw the Water Flowing 2024-03-13T02:40:02-04:00 Mary Pezzulo

LOGO Patheos Explore the world's faith through different perspectives on religion and spirituality! Patheos has the views of the prevalent religions and spiritualities of the world.

the grotto at Frankfort Mineral Springs, a natural cave made of shale rock

photo by Mary Pezzulo

It’s really spring now. The world is recalled to life.

I was raised to believe that exactly one thing gives life, and that’s God. Everything else is an illusion. The created things you love are obstacles to that one pure source of life I don’t remember when I was told that, or by who; it was conveyed to me, that’s all. Now I believe that life wells up for you in all kinds of places. One of those places, for me, is in nature. I have to go for hikes or I don’t feel alive. First the car was sick and then I was, but now we’re both better, so this afternoon I escaped Steubenville and went for a hike in nature. Up to that miraculous waterfall where I’ve been so many times, the one that makes me think of the Vidi Aquam.

I was the only one in the parking lot when I got to the ranger station– the perfect time for some meditation on the things I have learned.

The trees were barely budding yet. Overhead was bright and clear, and the park had cleared the raspberry brambles from either side of the trail in some place. At first, I might have been walking in a meadow instead of a forest. The path was so muddy, in places it turned into a little swamp.

Vidi aquam egredientem de templo, a latere dextro, Alleluia.

There was the noise of the stream, just out of sight. I heard it long before I saw it.

I couldn’t imagine why the water was high enough to make such a sound. There hasn’t been much melting snow this year.

For no good reason, I was afraid.

Just hearing the sound of the stream worried me.

I felt that rush of panic, the one that’s tortured me for years now: nothing is as it ought to be. The Catholic Church isn’t what she thought I was at all. She is a violent and capricious mother who ruined my life and did a thousand times worse to others of my brothers and sisters. But I’ve discovered I still believe in Christ. I’m certain I found Christ in Catholic sacraments. I would like to follow this Christ. But I can’t do what’s expected of me. The panic attacks and flashbacks make just getting to Mass nearly impossible, and I can’t even imagine going to confession again. I can’t go into a box with one of those men, not after everything I know now.

Does this mean Christ wants nothing to do with me?

I saw the stream soon enough: swollen, cloudy, noisy, irreverent, bursting almost beyond its banks because of the rain we’d had last week. It tore down the side of the path and disappeared into the woods. When I tried to cross it to continue down the trail, I couldn’t find a dry stone. My horrible purple hiking shoes were soaked and the ankles of my jeans soaked with them, and then I plunged into the shadow of the pines. Pine trees are always shady, no matter the time of year. They are orderly beings, their trunks ramrod-straight like the pillars in Gothic cathedrals, the branches arrayed in a spiral like staircases. Their smell is so clean, it’s nearly unnatural. Only their roots are disorderly. They sneak up on you. I found myself picking my way over ankle-twisting roots, the same way I used to hop from one faux marble tile to another without stepping on cracks when my parents took me to church.

Maybe the pines had a chant like the stream.

There wasn’t any wind to rustle the needles just then, but somehow I could imagine the trees making a noise: not a glorious resurrection chant. Maybe they were just reciting my catechism to me, in Latin of course. Extra Ecclesiam nulla salus. That was the phrase that popped into my head. I don’t know who first said that phrase to me. I don’t think we used it much around the house growing up, strict as my childhood was. I do remember praying fervently that my Methodist relatives would turn aside from their sins and become Catholic. I remember begging God to torture me with my rebellious brother’s purgatory on top of my own, so that he could be forgiven and go to Heaven as well, and then being unable to sleep because I was so afraid of all that pain. Did God want me to go to purgatory for my grandfathers, the lapsed United Brethren one and the lapsed Catholic one, as well? How many sinful people did I have to atone for so that the Father would stop being angry?

And now that I’ve failed so utterly, will anyone atone for me?

Is the Father angry with me that I can’t go into a church?

Am I going to hell because of the panic attacks? Will I have to watch Adrienne burning there as part of my punishment?

Could I possibly get a toe into Purgatory, and could Purgatory be more of a hospital than a jail? Not some terrifying Medieval lazar-cote where they stuff diseased people, but a place where I could heal and get better? And what would I do in Heaven after getting better? Heaven is where the saints are. Saints must be disgusted by me.

Et omnes ad quos pervenit aqua ista, salvi facti sunt, Et dicent: Alleluia, Alleluia, sang the stream behind me, brash as ever, even though it’s Lent and the Alleluia is forbidden.

It seemed like magic that the water would be this high and noisy without any melting snow.

They certainly hadn’t trimmed the raspberry brambles from the stretch of the trail that came after the pines. Slipping and squishing on the muddy ground, I stumbled the wrong way and tore my hand on a prickle. It bled just a little.

Next thing I knew, I found the foundation of the old cabin where sick people used to stay. A long time ago, this waterfall was said to have healing properties. Pilgrims came there and drank the water for their health, but now there are signs warning you not to because the water isn’t clean.

Next to the cabin were the stairs.

Next to the stairs was the cataract.

Several times when I’ve been to that place, the waterfall is missing, or little more than a trickle. Today it was alive. Today my noisy, irreverent stream and every other stream in the park were feeding over the lip of the shale cliff, a cacophony of water.

Water was flowing in the place where I’d found a room made of ice in January. Water was sliding out of the shale rock across those red streaks where the iron dust stains the wall red. Great big drops of rain were going drip drip drip off the ceiling of the cave, a sparkling deluge on a clear day. The hollow stone that formed a cup was full and overflowing with bright clear water. Water was pouring everywhere without thought, without economy, without common sense, a gushing torrent of generosity forever and all eternity whether anyone understood it or not, whether anyone appreciated it or not, whether anyone chose to receive it or not.

I wanted to talk to God.

I couldn’t think of a thing to say to God.

I had it on the tip of my tongue to tell God that I’d failed, miserably. I’d broken. I couldn’t do anything required of me. I’d failed at my Sunday obligation and I couldn’t possibly go to confession. I’d failed at raising my daughter to be an obedient Catholic as well. I’d failed at holding fast to the Barque of Peter as the pirates who drive the ship massacred me and my friends. I’d thrown myself headlong into trying to perform the Works of Mercy for my neighbors– yes, because I liked doing it and believed it was right, but also because, somewhere inside, I thought this was my last chance and I’d go to hell if I didn’t. And then I failed at that too. And for a year I hadn’t been able to do anything for anyone, and I felt so guilty and afraid. I wanted to tell God all of these things.

I wanted to tell Him that I was afraid He couldn’t hear me, because I’d been told a long time ago that souls in mortal sin are inaudible to God. I don’t remember who told me that either. I wasn’t even sure what my mortal sin was, but it certainly felt like I’d fallen that badly. I automatically started ticking through the conditions for a mortal sin, to see if any of my failings were bad enough.

And all the time, I knew my words were unnecessary, because God already knew.

I dipped my fingers into the natural font formed by that eroded stone, and made the Sign of the Cross. “In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”

I touched my wet hands to my ears and eyes. Last of all I tasted just a little drop, in spite of all the signs telling me not to.

I sang. Vidi aquam egredientem de templo, a latere dextro, Alleluia: Et omnes ad quos pervenit aqua ista, salvi facti sunt, Et dicent: Alleluia, Alleluia.

And, having broken every rule and done everything wrong, I hiked back to the car, and went home.

Mary Pezzulo is the author of Meditations on the Way of the Cross, The Sorrows an d Joys of Mary, and Stumbling into Grace: How We Meet God in Tiny Works of Mercy.

Steel Magnificat operates almost entirely on tips. To tip the author, donate to “The Little Portion” on paypal or Mary Pezzulo on venmo

Appalachia

appalachia

Frankfort Mineral Springs

nature

Vidi Aquam

Previous Post

March 10, 2024

Blogkeeping Notes for Early Spring

Next Post

March 15, 2024 Another Lawsuit for What's Left of Church Militant?

Recent Comments

0 | Leave a Comment

"Thank you for bringing so much goodness into the lives of so many children.Ran across ..."

alwayspuzzled

The Passion of the Red Oak

"This current administration has had me reflecting on the Nuremberg trials and the like, for ..."

axelbeingcivil

On Traditionalist Bullies, and the Death ..."

"You're talking about supercessionism, the idea that Christians "replace" the covenant that the Jewish people ..."

Alex

Yes, the Old Testament is About ..."

"Oh I'm sure it did."

Mary

A Televised Execution is a Moral, ..."

Browse Our Archives

Select a Category abortion Abuse Advent America American Christianity angel angels Annunciation Appalachia apparition apparition chaser apparition chasers apparition culture art art review babies baby baby Jesus Bad Lip Reading bad statue contest bath beauty Bible story blog blogkeeping blood book review Brandon Sanderson breastfeeding bus Catholic catholic conspiracy alarmism Catholic Oppositional Disorder Charismatic Renewal Charlie the Cat chastity Christ Christian idenitity Christianity and Judaism Chronic Illness clean clothing COD piece comedy compassion conscience conspiracy theory conversion cop-on-black violence Crucifixion cry of the poor culture Daesh Daily Saints death death penalty devotional diaconate diaper diapers dirty disability Donald Trump Dorothy Day dream drugs Eastern Catholicism Eastern Christianity education election election update Elsewhere on Patheos empathy environment Fear feminism film review fish flashback fluffy buns food Franciscan University of Steubenville Friendship Room fun Gabriel gardening gospel hair-splitting Heaven hell heresy Hillary Clinton history Holly the Witch Holy Spirit holy war Homeschooling homosexuality horror human dignity humor Icon idol immigrants infection inter-religious dialogue Interpretation of Scripture Islam Jesus Jihad Joseph joy laity and lay vocations lamb dinner laundry lent lgbtq literature love manners Mary Medicine and Science Meditation mercy mess milk misogyny Missouri monasticism monster motherhood mourn with those mourn movies movis music mystery nature neurodiversity New Pro-Life Movement news nonsense nostalgia O antiphons obituary objectification Ohio Valley Ordinary Time ordination Ordo Amoris parable paradox Passover peanut butter personal beliefs pets philosophy Planet Charismatic poetry politics polls poop Pope Francis Pope Leo power in the Church prayer prayer request prayers preferential option for non-violence president presidential election priest primary private revelation pro-life prophecy Public face of Catholicism Pure Flix Q and A race racism random rape rape. sexuality reader's request Reckoners refugee religious trauma ressurrection Right to life Saints saints and celebrations same-sex same-sex marriage satire scandal secular feasts seder Seven Joys Seven Last Words sex sexual ethics sexuality silencing six months skid row slavery social justice Speculative fiction spiritual abuse spoon stain story suffering suffrage suffragette Sunday Gospel temple Tenebrae Responsories Terror the exorcist The Friendship Room The New Pro-Life Movement Things I Learned on the Internet tin cup traffic true story tv review Uncategorized USCCB vice and temptation violence Virtue virtue and vice war Way of the Cross whimsy whole life women's ordination work of mercy Year A

Select a Month October 2026 September 2026 August 2026 July 2026 June 2026 May 2026 April 2026 March 2026 February 2026 January 2026 December 2025 November 2025 October 2025 September 2025 August 2025 July 2025 June 2025 May 2025 April 2025 March 2025 February 2025 January 2025 December 2024 November 2024 October 2024 September 2024 August 2024 July 2024 June 2024 May 2024 April 2024 March 2024 February 2024 January 2024 December 2023 November 2023 October 2023 September 2023 August 2023 July 2023 June 2023 May 2023 April 2023 March 2023 February 2023 January 2023 December 2022 November 2022 October 2022 September 2022 August 2022 July 2022 June 2022 May 2022 April 2022 March 2022 February 2022 January 2022 December 2021 November 2021 October 2021 September 2021 August 2021 July 2021 June 2021 May 2021 April 2021 March 2021 February 2021 January 2021 December 2020 November 2020 October 2020 September 2020 August 2020 July 2020 June 2020 May 2020 April 2020 March 2020 February 2020 January 2020 December 2019 November 2019 October 2019 September 2019 August 2019 July 2019 June 2019 May 2019 April 2019 March 2019 February 2019 January 2019 December 2018 November 2018 October 2018 September 2018 August 2018 July 2018 June 2018 May 2018 April 2018 March 2018 February 2018 January 2018 December 2017 November 2017 October 2017 September 2017 August 2017 July 2017 June 2017 May 2017 April 2017 March 2017 February 2017 January 2017 December 2016 November 2016 October 2016 September 2016 August 2016 July 2016 June 2016 May 2016 April 2016 March 2016

TAKE THE

Religious Wisdom Quiz

Who is the apostle to deny Jesus?

Select your answer to see how you score.

Phillip Judas Peter Andrew