There were years in my life when I liked to look at the Chicago River, which is probably the dirtiest stream in Christendom. When I rode the L from Logan Square to the Loop, I put aside the newspaper when we neared the river.

I looked down at the slow-moving yellow-gray water, and continued to look at it while the train crossed above it. If it held a boat, I looked at that too. But it was the water that attracted me.

I’ll never forget the morning I shoved up the shade in my lower berth, somewhere between Albany and New York, and looked out upon the vast Hudson.

It was a serene blue that day, a heavenly blue. I was not exactly on speaking terms with you then, God, but despite myself I lifted my heart to you, in appreciation and in thanks.

I have gazed upon many great rivers since that morning, but none ever thrilled me so much as the Hudson—that is, until I looked upon the Madawaska, which runs in front of Madonna House and winds its way to the mighty Ottawa.

This, I think, is the most beautiful river you ever fashioned. It may not compare in importance with the Nile or the Jordan or the Mississippi or the Tiber or the Po; but I like it better every time I look at it; and I look at it a dozen times a day, and maybe a dozen times at night.

I sat in our dining room, the first day I came to Combermere and stared at the river through the front windows. I didn’t believe what I saw. It seemed too lovely to be true. It still seems too wonderful to be real. I have no particular desire to swim in it. I do not want to fish in it. I do not want to go for a boat ride on it. I just like to watch it.

I ventured out on it the other day with your great friend and admirer, Father Callahan, who has become one of the most ardent and skillful fishermen in all the Americas. We went eastward, toward a little bay he knew, a spot where the river is a mile or more wide, and where the River York joins its life.

It was after six o’clock in the evening, but it wouldn’t be dark until nine o’clock or so. The sun was veering toward the west, and the river was a more beautiful shade of blue than ever the Hudson was.

I let Father Callahan do all the fishing. I didn’t care to do anything but sit in the boat and listen to the song of the outboard motor and look at your water and your mountains and your forests and your clouds. I enjoyed the day, the river, the breeze, the graceful way in which Father Cal cast his line, and the joy with which he coaxed a fish to come and live with him.

I was enjoying you, God!

When I was a boy, and even when I was fifty years old, I thought prayer was something one did on one’s knees, something one said. It was a labor, a duty, even a chore.

One prayed because one wanted something. One said morning and evening prayers only because the Sisters in Catholic school had taught him to do so, and he had got into the habit and couldn’t break it.

It had not occurred to me that I could sit silently in a boat, enjoy every minute that passed, drink in all the world around me, be aware of mosquitoes and flies, and still pray ardently to you.

But that’s what happened. I suddenly realized that, loving you as I was, I was praying! Who needs words to pray? Who needs anything but love?

Every tree on those hills was praying to you, God. Every little green tip on the pines, every fresh new needle, every fluttery leaf on the spectacular white birches, was praying to you without words. The clouds were praying to you even as they commuted to Toronto or Montreal.

I thought, "God made every one of those trees. He made every little part of them. He knows each one of them. He helps each branch and twig and root to grow. He paints each tiny needle green. He tends to the lovely wallpaper on the birches.

"He even cares for the rocks and pebbles and the river itself, and everything else, not only here, but throughout the world."

Apparently few people enjoy thinking about you, God. They are afraid of you. They distrust you. They blame you for everything they dislike, for everything they hate. They profess their utter disbelief in you—and they think they do away with you by saying, "There is no God."

But if they enjoy rivers and trees, strawberries and apples and pretty girls, and floating down the river, filling their senses with splendor, then they enjoy you, God.

The sad point is that maybe they don’t realize it is God they enjoy and not just the people and things you made.

I sat there, a long time, just loving and adoring you, God; and watching Father Cal catch fish.

Some fish were too little to keep. He took the hooks from their jaws and let them go back into the water.

I got to thinking about those little fish. And it came to me, there on your blue liquid carpet, God, that you had hooked me firmly and taken me into your boat a long time ago. I was still flopping around like the rock bass Fr. Cal had decided to keep, and I might flop around for quite a bit more time.

What I wondered about most was why you hadn’t thrown me back. I am a poor sort of fish, not worth anybody’s eating—especially yours, God.

It was close to nine o’clock when we headed for home. For miles it seemed we were rushing straight into your golden sun. Its light was dazzling, but not blinding. One could look at it and enjoy it.

When my sun sets, Lord, let me come home to you like that, swiftly, steadily, with as much joy in my heart, and with the same prayer, the prayer of love for you and yours. Let there be splendor in my heart and in my eyes to prepare me for the splendor of your heaven!

Colors changed to right and left, on the water, on the hills, in the sky, wherever I looked. The great ball of the sun dropped, blushing with its love for you and painting all the western world of sky and water. An hour later a million stars were swimming in the river.

I am a poor fish, not worth your keeping—but do keep me, God, until you are ready to dispose of me. (Yet keep me clear of the fire!)

Let me, before I end this letter, thank you especially for the Madawaska. You never made a finer river, Lord, unless perhaps you let one flow through Eden.

With all my love,

Your problem child

—Excerpted from Getting to Know God (1980), pp. 108-112, available from Madonna House Publications.