By Christina Holder

It was dark when we left—much too early for the sun—and the rain had not begun to fall. It is rainy season in Liberia, a long stretch from April until October when the sky opens nearly every day and pours forth.

On those days, it's as if God has turned the sky on its side, tilted it like a pitcher of cool water and let it run dry. And it's on those days that I often think of how God's faithfulness is like a rain shower. He covers us with His loyalty, much like He soaks the earth with water. That reminder alone brings relief and renewal and confidence to my troubled soul.

But on that early morning, before the darkness had given way to the light, it seemed that God was holding the sky steady. It was the dawn of a special day—the beginning of Marcel's 30th birthday and my first kayaking trip.

We had to leave early to get to the Mahee River, a somewhat gentle river curving through the green and muddy brown of Liberia's countryside. Marcel called the river "the mighty Mahee" for its rapids. They jostled the serene river at unexpected moments, much like a mischievous younger brother unleashing his antics on the elder.

Our goal was to make it down the mighty Mahee in Marcel's inflatable kayak. He pumped the little yellow boat to life in a matter of seconds, and then suddenly we were off in the swirling, blue-green water. Before me was the long stretch of river and 12 hours to pass the time with a man I barely knew.

I had met Marcel a week earlier. I, the journalist, had interviewed him, the manager of an agriculture program. Marcel is happy on the river like Emerson was in his woods. The last time he paddled down the Mahee, he did it alone. It was long and grueling.

This time, he wanted some help. Being eager to see a new part of Liberia, I came along. That day, as we sliced our paddles through the water and plowed through churning rapids, we laughed (and I might have screamed) and asked each other questions about life and family and love. As it turns out, we were facing some of the same struggles.

Marcel had worked in war-torn Liberia for three years. He was overworked and discouraged. He questioned the impact he had made, and he was uncertain of where he should go after his contract ended. He also was recovering from heartache. He had fallen in love earlier in the year and had experienced the pain and confusion of a broken relationship.

I could relate. I came to Liberia to write its story. To get here, I had to let go of a man I loved. Matt and I had dated for nearly two years. When he broke up with me, I felt the pain of many ruined dreams. I even questioned God's kindness. But soon after my relationship with Matt ended, God called me to Liberia. Here I've had the privilege of writing about a country in need of hope and healing five years after a terrible, 14-year civil war. Life here has been difficult. I've often felt alone and discouraged. When I leave in November, I, like Marcel, don't know where I'll go next.

Our lives felt unsteady as we sat in the yellow kayak, the river sloshing against its sides. The sun burned down on us, turning my bare legs pink. Yes, we believed that God had a good plan, but it still didn't take away the frustration of having to plow down the rivers of our lives, not knowing what was around the bend—a rapid or a bit of quiet water.

But somewhere in between all of the questions and vulnerable answers that Marcel and I were tossing back and forth to each other, God opened the sky and tilted it on its side. The cool rain began to pour forth. The clear drops pounded the blue-green water. Sheets of water fell over us. The water stung my eyes. I squinted and laughed.

We paddled on.

From the back of the boat, I heard Marcel begin to sing. He thanked God and praised Him.

"Keep singing!" I shouted back to him.

As we paddled around a bend, his voice and the pounding rain filled the empty space.

Then suddenly, Marcel stopped paddling. He stood up and tipped over the boat with determination. Like an overturned pitcher, into the blue-green water we poured.

Laughing, we splashed and floated and let the water wash over us. It was at that moment, that the river became what Psalm 36 calls "the river of delights." Later I remembered being covered in the water, and I thought of God's faithfulness. He is there, covering us with His loyalty and relief and healing. Our paths may feel unknown, but God knows every bend in the river. He knows every rapid along the way. He is eager to draw us close during times of trouble.

As the rain splattered the river's surface and fell over my face, I felt fortunate—even confident. Perhaps this is close to what William Cowper meant when he wrote his hymn, "God Moves in a Mysterious Way":

You fearful saints, fresh courage take,
the clouds you so much dread
Are big with mercy and shall break in blessings on your head.

The memory of that day in the river of delights comes back to me now when the rain falls in Liberia. As it gushes, I remember that God hasn't left me alone. I remember that He longs to cover me with His faithfulness, to tilt the sky on its side and to pour more blessings on my head.

Discuss this article on our blog, Fresh Brew.

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Christina Holder is a freelance writer based in Liberia, West Africa, where she is recording post-war stories five years after Liberia's brutal 14-year civil war. She is a former reporter for the Naples (Fla.) Daily News and a former reporter/researcher for syndicated columnist Robert D. Novak in Washington, D.C. She writes for the blog Beautifully Broken, which encourages women with God's promise to take their brokenness and to make it beautiful.

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Copyright © 2008 Christina Holder. All rights reserved. This article was published on Ungrind.org on August 24, 2008.