Down To The River To Pray

 

 

Rev Wilbur Witt

Nothing in my life has affected me as much as the Mystic Twenty-Seven. And my apologies for hitting this nail again, but this nail will never go away. In the scope of world events it seems a footnote. I, myself have seen events in my life, both public and personal that, at the time affected me, but these passed, as they tend to as time marched on. But these twenty-seven little girls grabbed my soul and would not let me forget.

Each morning I do a set routine. First, I check the pollen count. Then the weather. Then I tell my Alexa, “Good Morning,” and she reads me the top five stories. China had a parade, more Epstein files, Big Tech got bigger, Trump dropped a bunker buster bomb on some boat, and like I said, the twenty-seven are old news. The world moved on. I haven’t! My last part of the ritual is listening to Alison Krauss sing Down to the River to Pray.

I do this alone because my eyes fill with tears. At the first line it starts as a remember my own grandchildren swimming in the Cumberland River in Tennessee, and canoeing, as I imagine the little ladies of Mystic must have done before their river called them to the throne. No Christmas. No high school graduation. No wedding with their father by their side. Only destiny with the rest of us left to wonder why.

What makes this more poignant is that it happened where we make our movies. The people of the Hill Country of Central Texas have received us with open arms, and I am very familiar with the area. I have seen little girls with mommy shopping there. They are not an abstract to me.

Each of you have to ask your own questions. You have to impose your own beliefs, your own understanding on this. You have to come to your own conclusions. As for me, as I do each morning, as I wipe my eyes, they gather around me and hold me in their arms.

God Bless you every one.