The Black River

   "After they had nailed Him to the cross, the soldiers gambled for His clothes by throwing dice. Then they sat around and kept guard as He hung there. A sign was fastened above Jesus' head, announcing the charge against Him. It read: "This is Jesus, King of the Jews." Two revolutionaries (criminals) were crucified with Him, one on His right and one on His left." Mathew 27:35-38

  Back in 2012 when I chose the title for the blog, the Black River represented my struggles with depression and complex PTSD. It symbolized the all encompassing pain of trauma and abuse that was trying to drown me. I often felt powerless when its strong currents would sweep me into the depths of black memories that would rather be forgotten. 

  God gave me determination when hope was absent. He taught me how to build steep shores and dykes and berms to stop the river from overflowing. He taught me how to divert the river's path with dams constructed of art and words. The waters that would destroy me have soaked the arid land and many wonderful things now grow and continue to grow because of this.

  Does the Black River still flow?

  Yes. It does.

  But the water sparkles under the light of God's Son, of Jesus. The river's inky depths are pierced by dancing beams of light and goodness. 

  I am forever grateful.

  Without the Black River, I would not know Jesus.

  Without the Black River, I would never have realized my need for Him. 

  Without the Black River, I would never have found the determination to search for truth: God's truth. The father of lies would have me believing his truth that formed the river in the first place. He doesn't care if I sink or swim.

  God does.

  All I can say is the sins of men brought me to my knees and threw me into the depths of madness and despair. The stony, lifeless riverbed of the Black River was created in that moment of unfathomable sorrow.         

  My heart breaks for those who never find their way out of their own Black Rivers.

  My heart breaks for those who drown.

  My heart breaks for those who get swept away, never to be found.

   Every Easter I find myself thinking about the dark and terrible and wonderful day, November 9th, 2004, when I risked letting Jesus into my life as death called my name. 

  As I remember the inexpressible pain of the day that changed the course of my life, I find myself wondering, "How much more did Jesus feel on the Cross that day?" 

  And I hear His answer, "Your sins, too, my child."

  That's when I know, once again, I have been forgiven for helping to dig the riverbed.