WILL OF THE RIVER~ BY: ALFREDO GONZALES

By my wife’s ancestral home flows a river. For a dozen summers I have visited it, and almost every year I
make an effort to trace its course back to its source in the neighboring hills; I do not consider my
vacation there complete without doing this. In common with others streams of its kind, our river suffers
much from the summer drought. I have seen it so shrunken that fish lay lifeless on the parched sand and
gravel of its bed. But this summer I saw something I never had been sufficiently observant in other
abnormally dry years, I am sure I could not have failed to notice the same thing earlier.
One morning last April, in company with a student friend and also my elder son, I started out for the hill
to spend the day by the rapids and cascades at a place called Intongaban. We followed the course of the
river. After we had walked a kilometer or more, I saw that the river had disappeared and its bed was
dry. I looked around in wonder because past our little country house below and out toward the sea half
a mile or so farther down, the river was flowing clear and steady in its usual summer volume and depth.
But where we stood at the moment there was no water to be seen.All about us the wide river bed was
hot and dry.
We pursued our way on toward the hill, however, and walking another kilometer we saw the stream
again, though it had spread itself so thin it was lost at the edge of the waterless stretch of burning sand
and stones. And yet, continuing our way into the hills, we found the river grow deeper and stronger than
it was as it passed by our cottage.
To most people, I suppose, there is nothing strange or significant in this. Perhaps they have seen such
phenomenon more than once before. To me, however, it was a new experience and it impressed me like
all new experiences. To me it was not merely strange, it suggested a spiritual truth.
Flowing down from its cradle in the mountains just as it left the last foothills, the river had been checked
by long, forbidding, stretch of scorching sand. I had read of other streams that upon encountering
similar obstacles irretrievably lot themselves in sand mud. But Bakong- because that is the name of our
river- determined to reach the sea, tunneled its way, so to speak, under its sandy bed, of course
choosing the harder and lower stratum beneath, until at last it appeared again, limpid and steady in its
march to sea.
And then I thought of human life. I was reminded of many a life that stopped short to its great end just
because it lacked the power of will to push through hindrances. But I thought most of all those who, like
our river, met with almost insurmountable obstacles but undismayed continued their march, buried in
obscurity perhaps but resolutely pushing their way to the sea, to their life’s goal. I thought of men like
Galileo, who continued his work long after his sight had failed; of Beethoven, who composed his nobles
and sublimest symphonies when he could no longer hear a single note; of Stevenson, who produced
some of his greatest works after he was doomed to die of tuberculosis; and of Cecil Rhodes, who was
sent to Africa to die of an incurable disease, but before he obeyed the summons carved out an Empire in
the Dark Continent. These resolute and sublime souls reminded me of what our river taught me- that if
we cannot overcome obstacles, we can under come them.
Another lesson I learned from Bakong is the fact that the river was not merely determined to flow just
anywhere; it was determined to reach the sea, to the great end. Many streams manage to surmount
barrier they meet along the way, but they come out of obstacles after much labor only to end in a foul
and stagnant marsh or lake. How like so many human lives. How like so many people who, in the
springtime of their youth and in the summer of their early manhood, showed splendid heroism against
frowning odds, determined to overcome those hostiles barriers, only in the autumn of their lives to end
in defeat, disgrace, and remorse. On the other hand, think of other lives that, like our river, kept their
way even to the end of their course.
Bakong by continuing its march to the sea, kept itself fit for the service of nature and man; and not only
that, it expanded its field of usefulness. And does this not suggest that the river of man’s life should be
likewise?For if in the face of obstacles it lacks the strength of will to continue keeping itself fit to serve
and seeking new opportunities for service, it will ultimately become useless to others.
As I marveled at the power of Bakong to push its way through such a seemingly impassable barrier, I
discerned the secret- a secret that has a message for all of us. For Bakong was able to carry on, to
continue its watery pilgrimage and reach the immensity and sublimity of the sea only because its source
is the vast and lofty mountains. Unless a stream draws its power form a source of sufficient high and
magnitude, it cannot do as our river did this summer. It will not have the strength to cut its way through
great obstacles and reach the sea at last. Here is one of the marvelous secrets of life, and how many
have missed it! Verily, if a man derives his strength and inspiration from a low and feeble source, he will
fall to ”arrive.” Unless man draws his power from some source of heavenly altitude, unless the stream of
his life issues from a never-failing source, unless, in other words, his soul is fed from heights of infinite
power, he may fear that he will not reach the sea. But if his spirit is impelled and nourished by an
inexhaustible power from on high, he will, in spite of all obstructions, finish his course, if not in the glory
of dazzling achievements, at least in the nobility of a completed task faithfully done.