River Portraits > Healing Waters

By Stephen Pepper

In the early 1990s, driven by conflicting currents in my life, I spent a long weekend on retreat with the brothers of the Society of St. John the Evangelist in their magnificent guest house on Memorial Drive. Both parlor and library offer views of the Charles beyond the venerable sycamore trees. On this weekend, however, only bare branches shifted in the wind blustering downriver. Several inches of fresh snow hid the grassy banks where I lounged in the summer, the paved paths where I biked and walked, and the monastery's serene gardens. Snow piled up pristine on the river's ice thickened by a week of low temperatures. Why should I leave the warm quiet of the library, stocked with enough good books for a lifetime of retreats? If I needed a change of pace, I could always enjoy the cool and shadowy first-floor parlor, the purity of my simply furnished cell, or even the dim chapel, echoing with the prayers and incense of generations.

But no. On this day I needed to be outside in winter's white light, to shock my sinuses with sharp cold air, perhaps to escape briefly the doubts, fears, and desires coming so dangerously to the surface in my periods of meditation. So on went the extra socks, layers of shirts, muffler, mittens, and stocking cap. Up went the hood as I stepped into zero-degree weather. I climbed over white snowdrifts just now degrading into lumps of dirty slush, and made my own path on the river side of Memorial Drive, still glumly confused. At the Anderson Bridge I decided to cross and head upriver, away from the lights and noise of Harvard Square. Over the wide balustrade, more snow, more ice, more wind.

At the top of the bridge's arch, however, I stood still, open-mouthed (though I quickly closed it before my tongue could freeze). Below me, clearly drawn in the fresh, deep snow, in large letters, maybe two feet high, was the phrase "I ♥ Stephen". My name, spelled the way I spell it! All the rest of the snow was undisturbed; I couldn't see a single bootprint or ski track. Had some intrepid skater carefully etched the message, then covered her tracks as she retreated to shore? A student full of bravado dropped down from the bridge at mid-river with a long stick? I had no idea, but the effect of the sight was instantaneous and complete. It was a message of God's love, meant for me. I no longer felt alone or fearful; I could face my future, whatever it might bring. All during the rest of my walk, bushwhacking to the Eliot Bridge and back to the monastery, I carried the glow of this sight and its assurance. Back in my cell in dry clothes, I filled a page of my journal with this story and went down to Evening Prayer full of gratitude.

While the older self, who lives in the places to which those rushing currents were headed, no longer seeks or receives messages from God, it is pleasant to remember this day in the depths of a winter past in which the Charles offered healing waters, even in solid form.