I’ve always been drawn to water.

Maybe it started with the river that winds through the hills of home, its muddy current lapping at the banks, the scent of wet earth rising with the morning mist. Or maybe it began in childhood, with the icy shock of a garden hose spraying bare skin, the water hissing on sun-warmed pavement while the scent of cut grass, chlorine, and sunscreen filled the air.

Wherever it started, water has always called to me. It calms me, grounds me, and speaks to something deep inside my spirit.

It doesn’t really matter where I find it: the slow, silty curve of the Ohio River, the endless roll of the Atlantic stretching far beyond the shore, the still surface of my backyard pool, or the lavender-scented steam of a hot bath at the end of a long, aching day. Water soothes my soul.

When life feels loud, water reminds me to be still.

When my spirit is weary, water offers rest.

When my thoughts are scattered, water calls them home.

There’s something sacred about it. Something that mirrors the presence of God.

In Scripture, water was never just water. It was the Red Sea opening wide to make a way where there was none. It was the Jordan River marking the crossing into promise. It was the well where Jesus saw the truth of a woman others had dismissed, and where He offered her something deeper than she knew to ask for. It was baptism. Rebirth. Renewal.

I’ve felt that renewal in my own life, in the quiet places where words fell short and the water held the silence for me. I’ve floated beneath a canopy of stars, the night air brushing my face as the water held me weightless. I’ve cried into the stillness of a warm tub, steam curling around me like a soft blanket, my heart breaking open in a holy hush. I’ve sat quietly on the riverbank, bare toes pressing into damp moss, watching golden leaves drift like tiny rafts toward somewhere unknown.

There is peace in those moments. There is healing.

Life has not always been gentle. There have been seasons when the weight of motherhood, loss, work, and worry threatened to pull me under. But water has always offered me a place to breathe again. Even when I didn’t have the words, the water listened.

These days, I seek out the water with intention. Not just for rest, but for reflection. For a reset. For a return to myself and to the One who knit my soul together.

When I sit by the river, I remember that life flows: sometimes fast, sometimes slow, but always forward. When I wade into the ocean, toes sinking into cool sand as the waves crash in rhythmic surrender, I remember how small I am beneath the wide blue sky and how big God truly is. When I slip into the pool at night, the world quiet and stars overhead, I remember how good it feels to let go. To stop striving. To just float.

The world tells us to hustle. To push. To keep going, no matter how tired we are. But water reminds me that sometimes the holiest thing we can do is pause. Drink. Be still.

So if you’re weary today; if your heart feels heavy or your mind won’t quiet down; find your water. Even if it’s just a hot shower behind a locked door, where the world can wait ten more minutes. Let the water speak to you. Let it wash over the ache and loosen what’s tight in your spirit.

Let it remind you: you are held. You are not alone