On turning forty, a priest retreated to a remote hillside cabin for a week of meditation. It could have been a man or woman, high-ranking or low, but this priest happened to be a man who served a church of some prominence in a small city. From the cabin porch a river, which was visible through the remaining fall leaves, became the priest's guide. Each morning and evening fish rose to feed, creating ripples that melted in overhanging foliage. A kingfisher's rasp folded into the priest's silence.

On the third day an old man appeared by the river. His jeans and flannel shirt were stained and worn. He sat on the bank for an hour before walking on downstream, disappearing into the undergrowth. During the priest's afternoon meditation, the man walked back upstream.

Next morning the man returned, stopping below the cabin before continuing downstream. The rest of the day, the priest was distracted, wondering if the man would again interrupt his meditation. He was deep in silence when he heard the man crunching through the leaves and sticks.

When the man appeared in the early morning of the third day and again sat down facing the river, the priest could no longer block him out of his thoughts. He approached the man to ask him what he was doing.

“Traveling,” the man said, “This seems to be a good spot to cross.”

The priest examined the river. Despite requiring a short swim, crossing appeared easy and safe, even for someone of advanced years.

“Do you need help?” the priest asked.

The man shook his head, “I just don't know what I'll discover over there.”

Now the priest peered into the woods across the way. “It looks pretty much the same as here.”

“The difference is in me.”

“You've done this before?”

“At first it was easy, but now....”

The priest watched as the river embraced the man up to his chest. Before yielding completely to it, the man said, more to himself than to the priest, “There's always one more river to cross.”