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A Communing Community by Sue Wright

Internet technology is as “on vacation” as we two in our cabin, We Four, at Idlewilde by the River. But by some divine intervention, or if you prefer, a benevolent ether of unexpected I-Pad reception, I have received a message from Janet by e-mail yesterday, reminding me I have a blog to pen for Second. So, I sit here this chilly Estes Park morning, gazing out our kitchen window multitasking: drinking coffee, watching for a passing deer or bear, and putting a few words of reflection on paper, long-hand. 

We return to the Big Thompson River each year—just steps from our door—because, I confess, my faith is more grounded in nature than people. I need this place to stay centered. To stay a nice person. Imagine with me, you can hear the river’s roar, and I’ll try to explain. 

I find timelessness—a sense of eternity—where the river and her rushing never stops. One toe dipped into the ice cold water, and I am immersed in all I’ve learned and experienced of Christ throughout my life. I’m not re-baptized, but further baptized. I am a water-color begging more paint—the fine strokes of the Master in preparation for the clumsy daubs of humanity.  I am as old as Jesus. I am as new as Him. I am the splash He was coming to earth. I am all the sins He washed away and goes on washing. My soul is restored; my cup runneth over. Awash in this communion between my God and me, my deep-down longing for retrospection finally assuaged, I am eager to sip the bubbling drink that is community once again. To lap it up like a thirsty pup.

And just in time, for this summer, six of the cabins in our resort shelter folks we know, folks we’ll be sharing in camp side camaraderie: my niece and nephew, a family of five from Kansas who book each year to coincide our reservation, and surprise, surprise—a reunion of Chasteens—yes!—yours and my Chasteens from Second Baptist. The resort one over from ours, River Spruce, houses my sister and brother and their spouses, and a short hike up the hill, is a lodge of others among the Hon’s and my acquaintance, residing at the Y-Camp: a group from Crossroads Church in Kansas City which includes our own Charles Smith, his family, and two of my Jewell Concert Choir friends from the class of ’66.

Suddenly, comfortably, I have become aware as I write, how many on this trip besides me will have dared a toe into the same saving grace as I. For sure, we are indeed by our week’s temporary relocation, a community of toe-dipping believers, flooded by the beauty and wonder of our Lord’s world, and more empowered to be, by this brush with all creation, a better people, here in Colorado, and at home.