The River That Remembers

The River That Remembers

by Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

There is a thirst in the human soul that no feast can satisfy, no treasure can quench, and no human hand can fill. It is not the thirst for water, though our bodies ache for it; it is not the hunger for bread, though our stomachs plead for it. It is the deep yearning for the touch, voice, and presence of the One who made us the Creator of the universe, the One who breathed life into clay and called it human, the One who spoke light into the void and poured rivers into the veins of the earth.

Without Him, we can be surrounded by abundance and yet feel empty, for the soul was not designed to be sustained by what perishes. To live without the Creator is to walk across a great desert carrying a polished, beautiful gourd that is utterly empty. From a distance, it looks impressive; up close, it is hollow. And when the sun burns overhead and the wind strips the skin of its moisture, the lips will crack, the vision will blur, and the body will fall because there is no living water inside.

To walk with the Creator is different. To walk with Him is to find shade where the land seems bare, to discover springs in the most unexpected places, to feel His presence like cool rain after a season of dust. This is not mere religion tied in knots of rituals and appearances; it is the living connection to the Source of all breath and light. This connection is not optional it is the lifeline of existence. Without it, we are like drifting reeds in the flood, carried wherever the current chooses, never rooted, never at rest.

And yet, if we know this lifeline and fail to pass it to our children, we are like travelers who drink deeply at an oasis but leave those behind us to die of thirst. It is not enough to tell them about prayer and the Creator’s goodness we must let them see it lived.

Children learn from what we embody, not only from what we say. If they see us praying in joy and in grief, forgiving when wronged, giving when it costs us something, trusting when the earth beneath us shakes they will understand the path. But if they hear us speak of the Creator while our lives are ruled by greed, fear, bitterness, or endless striving for what fades, they will be confused, and their faith will have no anchor.

I often think of an old story told along the Okavango Delta in Botswana a story the elders call The River That Remembers. It began long before engines hummed on the water, back when the only maps were the stars overhead and the paths cut by elephants through the reeds.

In those days, there lived a woman known as Mma-Selwana, “Mother of Peace.” She was not the wealthiest, nor did she hold a chieftain’s seat, but people from across the delta came to sit by her fire.

She was a healer, a midwife, a keeper of stories, and most of all a listener. She listened to the songs of the birds, to the hidden footsteps of antelope, to the sigh of the wind through the papyrus reeds, and to the quiet voice of the Creator. Some said the river itself told her its secrets. Others swore that when she prayed, the hippos stopped their grunting to listen. She never confirmed such tales. She simply smiled and said, “When you listen for the Creator, all creation becomes your teacher.”

Mma-Selwana’s life had been long and full. In her youth, she had walked the banks of the delta, carrying baskets to trade for salt and cloth. She had paddled her father’s mokoro through channels where lilies floated and crocodiles watched with golden eyes. She had known hunger when the rains delayed and feasts when the harvest overflowed.

She had been present at the first cries of countless newborns and had sung the last songs over those who returned to the soil. Through it all, she said, the Creator was the same faithful, steady, unseen yet nearer than breath.

As her hair silvered and her back bent, she became like an ancient tree, weathered but rooted deep. Her steps grew slower, her eyes clouded like early-morning mist, yet her mind remained sharp, and her spirit seemed to shine brighter as her body dimmed. She knew the time of her crossing to “the other side of the river” was drawing near.

One evening, when the sky was turning the color of embers and the air was fragrant with mopane wood smoke, she called for the children of the village and with them their parents. They gathered around her fire, the circle lit by flickering flames and the faint silver of the rising moon.

“My children,” she said, “soon I will travel to the place where the Creator dwells in fullness. I have no silver to give you, no cattle to divide among you, no land to leave in your name. What I have is something greater, for it is the only thing you can carry into the next life. It is what the river gave me, and what I now give you.”

She told them to meet her at the riverbank the next morning, before the sun had climbed above the horizon. The air was cool and heavy with mist when they gathered. The water moved slow and glassy, holding the pale reflection of the waking sky. Birds called in the distance, and the reeds swayed with a rhythm older than memory.

On the sand before them, Mma-Selwana placed three objects.

The first was a calabash filled with water so clear that it mirrored the dawn. “This,” she said, “is the water of life. The river gives you water for your body, but only the Creator can give you water for your soul. You may drink from the river every day, but if you do not know the One who sends the rain, your thirst will always return. You will wander, searching for what you already had before your first breath.”

The second was a woven palm-leaf basket. Its pattern was tight and beautiful, yet the bottom was pierced by a wide hole. Into it, she poured seeds of sorghum. They slipped through and scattered over the sand. “This,” she said, “is what wealth is like without the Creator. You may gather it, you may guard it, but it will slip away when you need it most. Only what you plant in others in kindness, truth, mercy, and faith will take root and bear fruit that endures.”

The third was her own walking stick, polished smooth by years of journeys. She held it for a long moment, then pressed it into the soil so it stood upright. “This stick has leaned on the ground for many seasons, but it has never rooted. Without the Creator, a life is like this stick standing for a time, perhaps admired, but without life within. Plant yourself in His ways, and you will grow like the fig tree whose roots drink from hidden streams, whose shade shelters the weary, and whose fruit feeds the hungry long after your days are done.”

The villagers listened in silence. The children’s eyes flicked from the calabash to the basket to the stick, as if trying to drink in the meaning. Then one little boy stepped forward and asked, “Mma, will we see you again after you cross the river?” She placed her hand on his head and smiled. “When your roots are in the Creator, you will always find me. The river remembers.”

That evening, the whole village walked her to the edge of the reeds. The sunset spilled gold and copper across the water. She stepped into her mokoro, her hands steady on the paddle. As she drifted toward the west, the last they saw of her was her hand lifted in blessing. Some say a sudden breeze came, carrying the scent of rain. Others swear the river bowed as she passed.

In the years that followed, when drought threatened or the young grew restless, the elders would gather the children at the riverbank. They would point to the bend where the water vanished into the horizon and tell the story of the calabash, the basket, and the stick. And the children, now grown, would remember her words: Drink from the water that never runs dry. Plant where the harvest will never fail. Stand where your roots will never be shaken.

This is the lesson for us as well. The water is here, but we must drink. The seeds are here, but we must plant. The ground is here, but we must root ourselves in the One who made us. Let our children see us do these things not as a performance, but as a way of life. Let them watch us trust Him when the world shakes. Let them hear our gratitude in the harvest and our faith in the famine. Let them see us plant seeds of kindness even in stony ground, because the Creator can bring fruit from places we thought barren.

For the inheritance we leave them is not the cattle in the kraal, nor the coins in the jar, nor the land marked by stones it is the unshakable knowledge of how to walk with the One who holds the river in His hand. And when our own day comes to cross to the other side, may they not be lost in grief as those without hope, but may they stand at the water’s edge, watching, knowing exactly where the path leads because they have seen us walk it first.

The river will remember. And so will they.