Forty-Seven Rivers Flow Into One

Forty-Seven Rivers Flow Into One

A Birthday Reflection on the Creator, My Mother, and the Pen That Bridges Worlds

By Kateb Shunnar

Man, here I am 47 years deep and this birthday don’t feel like the usual hoopla with cake and candles. Nah, it feels quieter, like that soft part of the river at dawn when the fog’s heavy and everything’s still. You feel it in your chest, like the city itself breathing slow, saying, “You’re here for a reason, even if you don’t see it yet.” Truth is, I wouldn’t be here without my mother, Marva. She carried me. She believed in me before I even knew what believing meant. She was my first bridge the one who made sure I got here safe, who gave me that first breath.

Birthdays, I’m learning, ain’t about us. They’re about the One who dreamed us into being, the folks who carried us, and the ancestors whose prayers and hard work flowed into our veins long before we could even walk. I feel that thread more every year a cord running through me, through my mother, my grandmother, my father, and generations I never got to meet. It humbles you. It grounds you. Life ain’t a solo stroll it’s a choir of voices that carried you here.

I spent a long time thinking I had to have achievements, trophies, big recognition to feel alive. I chased milestones like they were the city parade, thinking if I caught the right float, my life would feel complete. But what I was really chasing was connection the kind that reaches beyond what you can see, the kind that holds you up when the world wants to shove you under. And somewhere along the way, I realized my pen wasn’t just ink on paper it was a bridge. A way to say, “I see you. You matter. You’re not walking alone.”

Some of my first lessons came from my grandmother, Celestine. I was her shadow, the baby grandkid always tagging along. I’d fetch water, sweep the porch, or carry whatever she asked, while she hummed songs that smelled like Sunday mornings and gumbo. One day, I asked why she always seemed so steady, so calm, even when life got messy. She looked at me, those eyes calm but sharp, and said, “Kateb, everything you touch carries care. Even the smallest thing, the tiniest act, somebody somewhere will feel it.” I didn’t get it then, but man, I get it now. Slowly, those words became part of me.

And my grandfather those mornings on the river, the mist heavy and the water smelling earthy, alive. We fished, we crabbed, we waited. I wanted to pull the trap up right away, impatient. He chuckled and said, “Patience, boy. The river don’t give when you want it. It gives when it’s ready.” That patience, that stillness it’s something I carry with me every day. Even now, when I sit down to write or just breathe, I hear that voice. Slow down. Notice. Life’s rhythm ain’t meant to be rushed.

I’ve carried a story my whole life: a giant turtle carried the world on its back. Every year, it shook the dust loose, and people stumbled, hollering, “Why you gotta shake us like this?” And the turtle said, “If I never shake, you’ll never stand. If I never move, you’ll never walk. If I never carry you, you’ll never see your wings.” People laughed wings? Us? But over time, they noticed sprouts on their backs. Wings they didn’t even know they had. That story feels like my own life: full of shakes, stumbles, and moments when I wondered if I’d ever stand straight again. Each fall reshaped me. Taught me that connection with the Creator isn’t about dodging the fall it’s about learning to rise after it, stronger, wiser, and ready to fly.

Even as a kid, writing was my little secret world. I’d scribble stories on scraps of paper, hide them under my bed, and make entire worlds about rivers, trees, animals, and people I watched in the neighborhood. Writing felt alive. It was like I could touch the universe, even just a little bit. My mother never had to push me. She made room for my curiosity, my questions, my wonder. Writing became my hand across time and space, a way to connect with something bigger than myself.

I remember one morning, maybe ten or eleven, helping my grandfather set crab traps. Fog clung to the river like a heavy blanket, the air thick with the smell of wet earth. I wanted to pull the trap up right away. He laughed softly. “Patience, Kateb. The river gives when it’s ready.” That patience has never left me. It whispers on nights when I doubt myself, in moments when I feel invisible, when the city hums and life feels heavy. It says, “Wait. Watch. Feel. You’re part of this rhythm.”

Life ain’t just ours alone. It’s a song, sung by the Creator, carried through our folks, grandparents, and even through the mistakes we make. Birthdays are a chance to say thank you. Thank you to the One who dreamed us into being. Thank you to the mothers, grandmothers, and fathers who carried us, who tried, even when they faltered. Gratitude keeps the heart lighter, the years sweeter, the soul young.

This year, I made an acronym out of BRIDGE, because that’s exactly what I feel called to be:

B – Believe in something bigger than yourself.

R – Reach across divides, even if it feels awkward.

I – Illuminate someone else’s path, even a tiny light counts.

D – Dedicate your gifts to service, not your ego.

G – Grow, even when life shakes you like that old turtle’s shell.

E – Embrace every breath as proof of grace, even when it’s hard to feel.

That’s BRIDGE. Forty-seven years boiled down to one word. And I want to keep building bridges, tearing down walls, writing reflections that touch hearts, reminding folks that we were made to fly.

Even in the moments when I felt invisible, unseen, forgotten, the Creator’s voice tugged me. “Keep going. You’re still here for a reason.” Those whispers grew louder over time, guiding me through storms, long nights, moments when the world felt heavy and cold.

My mother has always been my first bridge. Her prayers, her lessons, her steady presence they are the foundation I stand on. Without her, there’d be no pen in my hand, no story to tell, no bridges built.

So tonight, I’m not asking for applause or presents. I’m asking something simpler: honor your journey. Honor your Creator. Honor the parents, grandparents, and mentors who shaped you. Honor the shakes, the tumbles, the mistakes that taught you to rise. If we can do that together, side by side maybe the world we leave behind will be a little lighter, warmer, more connected.

And for that, I am profoundly grateful.

Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar