Headwaters

by Gene Shelburne

Have you noticed how that greatness so often rises almost imperceptibly out of obscurity? As Jesus said, the Kingdom comes without observation.

In northern Italy, high in the Dolomites last fall, I watched a great river being born. Who would have guessed it, though? All I saw was a tiny pipe dribbling spring water into a rock-lined pool. Somebody posted a plaque by the pond to inform ignorant souls like me that this icy trickle is the headwaters of the Italian river called Piave, that swells into a gorge-filling torrent before it plunges into the Adriatic Sea just north of Venice.

Adjacent to the pool, in the shadows of the sheer stone face of Peralba Mountain stands a sturdy little cafe called the Refugio Sorgenti del Piave. One modest building and one nondescript pool. That’s all that’s there.

To this tiny dot almost lost on the most detailed relief maps of the area, the Pope made his way not long before us. Il Papa (as he is known to most Italians) came to bless the waters of the spring. Everybody who heard we planned to go there responded brightly, “Oh, that’s where the Pope went.” Obviously his visit did not go unnoticed.

Neither did ours.

Son Jon’s decrepit Voyager struggled to climb the switchbacks of Avanza Pass that day. Half a mile from the road’s end the van was engulfed suddenly in clouds of angry steam that reeked of antifreeze. Into the small parking area by the pool we coasted as all eyes watched warily to see if at any moment we might explode.

“Americano!” one Italian tourist muttered as we chugged up in billowing gusts of green vapor. Whether he was disparaging us or our vehicle I was never quite sure.

Unlike the Pope’s visit, our arrival blessed no one. Except, perhaps, the lady who ran the restaurant, whose business boomed when seven hungry pilgrims appeared. She fed us well that day beside the river’s birthplace.

Whether for rivers or families or nations or world-changing concepts, headwaters are seldom spectacular.

In the worst of circumstances two peasants are wed. Who would guess that their great-great-grandchildren will one day rule nations or quell plagues or pen classics that will endure for centuries?

A sleepy teacher lectures to bored students. Who could foresee that ideas thus implanted may one day burst into insights that change the rest of history?

What do you suppose God is hatching right under our noses this year?