Flash Fiction - “Where the Water Knows Its Name”

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Amsterdam does not rush its mornings.

Light arrives softened by water, filtered through narrow windows and drawn curtains. The canals hold the sky without breaking it, mirroring clouds that drift as if they, too, are unhurried. Bicycles pass with a practiced ease, bells chiming briefly—not to startle, only to signal presence.

She walks along the canal’s edge, hands tucked into her coat, aware of the rhythm beneath her steps. The water moves quietly but with certainty. It knows its course. It does not spill simply because it is full.

She has come to appreciate cities that understand restraint.


The houses lean toward one another as if sharing secrets—tall, narrow, steadfast. Some carry centuries in their bricks. Others have been restored so carefully that age feels honored rather than erased. Amsterdam remembers without demanding explanation.


She pauses at a bridge, resting her hands on the railing. Below her, the canal reflects fragments of color: windows, sky, the slow passage of a boat that cuts the water cleanly and leaves it whole again behind.


A verse comes to her—not abruptly, but like something long stored and finally useful:


“Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of thy waterspouts: all thy waves and thy billows are gone over me.” — Psalm 42:7


The words do not feel heavy today. They feel honest.


She watches the water continue, neither resisting nor overflowing. There was a time when depth frightened her—when feeling too much seemed dangerous. But depth, she has learned, is not the enemy. Uncontained depth is.


God contains without suffocating.


She resumes walking, passing cafés just beginning to open. Chairs are stacked neatly, waiting. Windows are wiped clean with deliberate care. There is no performance in the preparation—only readiness.


She thinks of how often she once mistook readiness for vigilance. How her body learned to stay alert long after the need had passed. Healing has been, in part, the slow relearning of what peace feels like when it is not fragile.


“Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee.” — Isaiah 26:3


The canal curves gently, guiding her without instruction. She does not need a map. Amsterdam offers direction through design rather than demand.


She notices how the city allows movement without spectacle. No one stares. No one intrudes. Lives pass alongside one another with a mutual agreement of respect. Boundaries are not cold here; they are practiced.


She crosses another bridge and turns down a quieter street. A small bookshop is open, its door propped slightly, inviting without insisting. She steps inside, greeted by the soft weight of paper and silence that feels companionable.

She runs her fingers along spines—not searching for anything in particular. There was a season when searching consumed her. Now, she allows herself to be found instead.


“The LORD is good unto them that wait for him, to the soul that seeketh him.” — Lamentations 3:25


She selects nothing and leaves without regret. The act itself feels like progress.


Outside, the air carries the faint scent of water and bread. She walks again, unburdened by destination. Amsterdam does not punish wandering. It accommodates it.


She thinks of how God has done the same.


There were years when she believed faith required constant movement—proof of growth, proof of obedience, proof that nothing had been wasted. But God has been patient in teaching her that stillness is not stagnation.


“The LORD shall fight for you, and ye shall hold your peace.” — Exodus 14:14


She stops at the edge of a canal where steps descend toward the water. She does not sit—only observes. The steps are worn smooth from years of use. They have held countless pauses, countless reflections, countless moments of quiet decision.


She recognizes herself in them.


Not everything needs to be entered to be understood.


A boat passes, low and unassuming, its wake gentle. The water settles almost immediately. There is no lasting disruption. The canal receives movement and releases it without harm.


She breathes deeply.


“For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.” — 2 Timothy 1:7


Soundness of mind, she realizes, is not the absence of memory. It is the presence of order.


She continues on until the city opens into a broader space, where water, sky, and street meet without crowding one another. The balance feels intentional, as though someone once said, This is enough, and meant it.


She thinks of another promise, steady and unembellished:


“The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.” — Deuteronomy 33:27


Underneath. Not above only. Not ahead only.


Present.


She leans against the railing one last time, letting the day settle. There is nothing she needs to revisit, nothing she must extract from the moment. The city does not ask her to perform insight.


It simply holds.


As she turns back, footsteps light and unforced, she understands something quietly: freedom does not always announce itself. Sometimes it feels like walking without needing to explain why.


Amsterdam continues behind her—water flowing, bridges holding, houses standing close without collapsing into one another.


And she walks on, carried by a Presence that has never once lost its course.



⧪


Explore


Still With Her: Flash Fictions (New: Monthly on the 5th, 10th, 15th, 20th, 25th, and 30th)

Bound Gently: Veiled in Crimson - Short Fiction Book (Completed)

Spoken Before Him: Beloved Daughter - Prayer Book (Completed)

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