By Davalynn Spencer @davalynnspencer

I belong to a group of women who pray.

Collectively, I see them as a river that surges out from our midst, coursing through our community, swirling around boulders of sickness, spreading through exposed tree roots, and washing over sun-drenched sandbars in praise.

The river carries life to wherever its water is needed.

Jesus told a crowd of people one day that whoever believed in Him, out of his heart would flow rivers of living water (John 7:37-38).

Imagine – rivers of water flowing out of us because we believe in Jesus.

It’s true, I’ve seen it. I’ve felt the life-giving force.

The water is ever new though the river is ever the same. Much like the Arkansas River that flows not far from my home, the River of Life from Jesus always carries new, fresh water, yet it is always the same river.

One of those mysteries of God.

These are trying times in which we live. If you don’t have a river to which you can go for nourishment, refreshing, and comfort, find one. If you don’t have a group of people who pray, start one. There is more life-force than we may have realized in the power of pure and surging corporate prayer.

~

Corra Jameson’s feet tingled. She paused midstroke in her sweeping and looked toward the open front door. A growing vibration worked its way into the soles of her shoes, and teardrop crystals on the hallway lamp trembled. She leaned the broom against the kitchen table and went to investigate.

Like a wasp buzzing down the hall, her niece flew by and out the screen door. Hard on the girl’s heels, Corra yanked her back from the narrow yard fronting Main Street—now a bellowing river of cattle.

Horns clacked together and dust churned, coating Corra’s lips. Two young outriders, one on either side, flanked the mass. Corra pressed Alicia against her skirts, the girl’s excitement pulsing beneath her hands.

“I saw them coming from my window upstairs.” Quite an event for an eight-year-old. Not much happened in Ford Junction, other than the arrival of trains, stages, and wagons for church socials. Certainly not a cattle drive through the heart of town—if a small store, depot, and boardinghouse could be called a town.

But Corra’s pulse beat as rapidly as the girl’s. She’d never seen the like, though tales of wild cowboys and life in the West were half the reason she’d come to Colorado. The other half propped up the porch upon which she stood—Baxter’s Boardinghouse. The only meal and bed at this juncture of the Denver and Rio Grande and the Texas Creek stage road. ~The Wrangler’s Woman

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