This much I will tell

Here are the sounds of Wear [water]. It rattles stone on stone. It sucks its teeth. It sings. It hisses like the rain.  It roars. It laughs. It claps its hands. Sometimes I think it prays. In winter, through the ice, I've seen it moving swift and black as Tune, without a sound. . . .

"Praise, praise!" I croak.  Praise God for all that's holy, cold and dark.  Praise him for all we lose, for all the river of the years bears off.  Praise him for stillness in the wake of pain.  Praise him for emptiness.  And as you race to spill into the sea, praise him yourself, old Wear.  Praise him for dying and the peace of death.

In the little church I built of wood for Mary, I hollowed out a place for him. Perkin brings him by the pail and pours him in.  Now that I can hardly walk, I crawl to meet him there.  He takes me in his chilly lap to wash me of my sins.  Or I kneel down beside him till within his depths I see a star.  Sometimes this star is still.  Sometimes she dances.  She is Mary's star.  Within that little pool of Wear she winks at me.  I wink at her.

The secret that we share I cannot tell in full.  But this much I will tell.  What's lost is nothing to what's found, and all the death that ever was, set next to life, would scarcely fill a cup.  

                                                            Frederick Buechner, Godric