I've Just Come from the Fountain

Belle Isle is one of my favorite places to walk, watch a sunset, meditate, breathe, break a writer’s block. Like Detroit, this space holds incredible history and an amazing fountain. In July the fountain was shut off for repairs. It was estimated to be back on in August. It was still off when I made my way there on a late September Friday after returning from Santa Fe.

The next morning waiting in line for breakfast at Eastern Market, a man turned around joyfully announcing, “the fountain is back on!” My eyes widened as he continued, “early this morning. I saw it myself.”

And needing to see it for myself, I headed that way. The flowing fountain felt more powerful, sounded much louder after all that time without it. Sitting, listening, and letting it wash over me I began to wonder…

How did I become so captivated and curious about water?

Practicing floating and treading water in swim classes. Walking the shores of Lake Huron with my great grandpa searching for rocks and driftwood. Running through the sprinkler on really hot days. Tubing in the Rifle River. Watering flowers and making mud ponds in the back yard.

I learned early that water is fun and refreshing, holy and peaceful.

Hearing my great grandma tell how her family had to move because her baby sister was deathly sick from living on the Flint River so close to the factories. The beaches closing during summer camp field trips due to E. coli. Realizing my friends’ water was shut off—that they couldn’t bathe, brush their teeth, or cook—and helping them hook up a hose from another neighbor’s faucet to get what they needed.

I learned young that water is political, not always safe for consumption or equally accessible.

My great grandma told captivating stories about her youth. She also captivated me with stories of faith. When I, her oldest great grandchild, was baptized on my third birthday in a United Methodist Church, she couldn’t have been prouder. Methodism, like the Flint River, running through more than five generations of my family, has a distinct understanding of grace. That it is prevenient. Coming before us. Always right before us. Forever ours. Expectantly waiting to be claimed. Not earned or reserved. Poured out most profoundly at the sacrament of baptism.

I have no memories of my baptism. But I have photos that stir up memories, like I imagine the minister stirring up the water in the marble fountain before sprinkling it on my head. My early life is marked by trauma and also by the waters of that baptism. That water sustained me, and ultimately led me to a new home and a second chance in Detroit. That water held my healing and was the source of my call to ministry in the United Methodist Church.

Adjacent to the sanctuary where I was baptized, was another building. The Education Wing, as we called it, is how I imagined heaven. Colorful, playfully decorated Sunday school rooms with teachers who smelled like fruity markers and flowery powder. Toys, books, games, a full craft closet, indoor slides, sandboxes, musical instruments, costumes, and delicious snacks. Kid sized toilets and a step ladder to reach the drinking fountain in the hall just outside the nursery.

That church where I was baptized closed in 2002. A new congregation moved in and heaven became remodeled offices for denominational staff. I returned for ordination process interviews and workshops. I also remember being there for a meeting to brainstorm how churches might take an active role in the developing water crisis. At the time that lead leaching into Flint’s water supply was making front page news, I was leading a large disaster response project in Detroit, where thousands of households experienced devastating flooding. I was a commissioned (probationary) clergy person and working towards full ordination. More and more I felt water was the figurative and literal substance of my calling and the unique ministry I would offer the world.

I stepped out from the meeting in a conference room, where in a seemingly different life I had learned about the Bible, loving my neighbor, and caring for others, played John Wesley trivia, and picked up my first handbell. I was overwhelmed and thirsty. The water fountain I’d known my whole life, where I kept returning as a child for one more drink to prolong returning to a chaotic home, was covered in caution tape. The fountain off. No water flowing. Signs of lead poisoning everywhere. I just wanted to cry.

In February 2017 I surrendered my provisional clergy credentials. With gentle guidance and small drops of grace at just the right time, I came to understand that a closeted life was not the life God called me to. And that denying my queerness in pursuit of ordination would be akin to drinking a slow acting poison I would never recover from.

It was a horrible, humiliating day. A day that felt similar to the day I gave my all to creating a way for churches to respond to the water crisis only to find the fountain off when I most needed a drink. The fountain was covered with hypocrisy. No grace flowing. Signs of rejection all over. I cried a lot.

I’ve spent the last 6+ years healing, searching, learning to love myself, trying, failing, dreaming. Rediscovering what it means to be called and to live out a calling. Birthing 10 Camels. Reimagining ministry. Realizing 10 Camels isn’t a ministry. It is an offering of words and an invitation to water for others who are thirsty, especially those who have been turned away by church, religion, and unjust politics.

After a while sitting and listening to the newly fixed fountain at Belle Isle, I dipped my hands in. The water was cool and soft. Stirring. Bubbling. Flowing freely. Filling space. Mist floating into the air. Carried away by the breeze. Grace is like that too. Even when it’s off it’s on. Sometimes it needs to be filtered from the church to be safe. The repairs required are to the structure not the substance. The shame belongs to ones who uphold the system not the ones shut off from the supply.

What if baptism is possible every single day? What if water isn’t simply a way to experience grace, but rather is grace itself? What if we treated water in all its forms as an elemental human right rather than a christian rite? What if we focus less on sacraments and who is authorized to administer them, and more on living sacramentally? Living like everything is a way to encounter the holy and sacred in creation and within ourselves?

I’ve just come from the fountain. The water is on. It all tastes sweeter now.

Water-fully Yours, Rebecca
10 Camels

“I’ve Just Come from the Fountain” is just one of many African African Spirituals. The song is also known as “His Name So Sweet.” Take a moment today to learn more about the history of this revolutionary musical genre.