And so it happened: the water under the sky was gathered….  God saw that it was good.  (Genesis 1:9)

Water, seemingly endless, flows under the footbridge spanning the Assiniboine River at the park to Portage Avenue.  Ducks and geese float on the edge of the soiled brown flood seemingly unaware of its source, the Qu'Appelle and Souris Rivers, or of its long journey through rich western farm land 950 km to meet the Red River at The Forks in the centre of Winnipeg. 

Water, the stuff of stories, legend, and faith:  its strength and power in stories like Herbert's intriguing Dune series;  its mystery in the Aegean with Odysseus steering his one mast craft searching for home;  its vastness of oceans, harbours and tides in the search for the fated Bismarck;  its sacredness in The Reed Sea, the Jordan River, and the Sea of Galilee of scripture.

In 1963 my parents and family members drove from Saskatchewan 2700 km to visit me at the Jesuit Novitiate in Guelph, Ontario;  but a true high light of the trip for them was Niagara Falls!  So much water. 

A far cry from the Assiniboine, or the Red River or even the mighty Saskatchewan River.  Wondrous the almost deafening roar of millions of litres of water cascading over the precipice crashing into the nebulous rocks below to cast spray way back up to the concrete observation platform, a display of such largess for a family from the flat prairie soil dependent for moisture on the whims of summer thunder storms or winter blizzards and snow squalls. 

Our Saskatchewan farm 30 km east of Regina sported two pastures each boasting a spring fed creek that pooled water in crevices eroded by the rushing spring run off, that trickled enough through the summer heat to keep the ponds from turning into mud baths for the cattle.

Our farm in the 50's had two wells, one close to the farm house not dependable even in winter, the other at a half km distance only twelve feet deep with an endless stream.  Cattle drank water from the creek in the summer, but were watered from the wells in winter, hand pumped from the close well and drawn by bucket and rope from the far well! 

Water for the family was 'running', ferried by pails and leg power, water for cooking, drinking, washing!

A scar is still on my head, the result of a collision with my eldest sister’s twirling pails.  I got too close.   Stone boat and horse hauled water for garden and chickens, the barrel sometimes doubling as a swimming ‘hole’ in the extreme July heat!  Garden cucumbers and tomatoes got refreshed through tin cans opened at both ends  pushed close to the roots. Wash water, laundry water, cooking water eventually all found a path to the thirsty earth.

And today as water rushes below the bridge beneath my feet, I think of my thirsty body, its composition 60 % water, and I ponder the water that began to sate another thirst, changing me forever seventy two years ago, me only two days old born with whooping cough.

And I remember that in the afternoon of the third Sunday of each month I splash water three times on each head bent in turn over the font with the words "I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit" and destine each for eternity.  Precious water.

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All photos are by Frank Obrigewitsch, SJ