In the Jordan

As I mentioned recently, we have a creek running through our property which provides aesthetic value to us and to most young visitors to our home. This little brook begins just uphill from our property in a pondy marsh; it ends about five hundred yards below our property, where it empties into the Susquehanna River. It’s a short body of water, of little note to most who drive past or over it.

But things become memorable when we have significant experiences with them. So it is with our little creek. Last summer, three young friends were visiting to do some construction. They had ridden to our house on their bicycles, so when it came time for them to depart, they hopped on their bikes and headed down the steep dirt road towards the main highway.

One of our friends lost control on the graveled curve and rode down a rocky slope into the forested creek. Judging from where I found his bike later, he nearly missed striking a few trees head-on—praise the Lord! Bruised and bloodied, he managed to climb up out of the creek to the road, by which time another of the youth had run back to our house. Meanwhile, a good Samaritan had picked up our victim and brought him back to our driveway. (Thanks to Joanne and the Spirit’s timing.) From there we called 911 and his parents.

In spite of a frightening amount of gore, he only needed a few stitches; more than a year later the signs of his accident do not in the least deprive him of his good looks. I daresay perhaps those slight scars will be marks of that strange pride we derive from surviving ordeals.

After retrieving his bicycle from the creek—which fared considerably better than our friend in the tussle with nature—I decided to name the creek after him. So the babbling brook that courses past our house is now Jordan Creek.

Congratulations, Jordan; I wish that getting one’s name into history did not require such suffering.

~ emrys