Glory, glory, glory. Her voice was quiet, but not weak. There was determination behind it that would break down walls. Maybe. It was battle weary, but not beaten; with a tenacious purity unsullied by doubt.

Her eyes were drawn upward; up toward the surrounding mountains peaked with last winter’s snow, and spring flowers cascading downward despite rocky crags and mountain goats, and finally to the pool at which she stood.

She remembered it from her childhood: pure, crisp, and pristine, sweetly greeting the blue sky above with a perfect reflection. Those days of warm breezes and the buzz of bees, of an occasional moose or deer, fox or wolf offered a balm to anyone willing to take the hike to get it. And she often did so. Until she didn’t.

It had been too long. She had gotten busy and earned the distraction that came with it. The pool, the mountains, even the little mice and squirrels who found their homes away from the crowds had no place in her thoughts. Finally, finally, finally one day she remembered them. What prompted such a memory? Perhaps it was a sound. Maybe the scent of flowers at the grocery store. Or possibly it was just time.

When she reached the pool, though, it wasn’t at all as she remembered. Algae skirted its edges. The cattails and sedum that had once delighted her, were drooped and yellowed. Scum clung to its surface. The once-loved pool was drying up and dying. Alarmed, she’d hiked along the now dry path of the spring which had bubbled and sang as it traveled down the mountain to feed the pool. She decided to camp out of her truck, and spent a week clearing what needed clearing. It hadn’t helped. Even a brief storm made no difference.

It was then she remembered a story her father had told her of such a sight back in the 1600s. And when nothing could be done, his 16th-great-grandmother had called on heaven to do what no one else could. Or so the story went.

She knew anyone who saw her would think her foolish. But who would make such a hike when no balm was offered? No. She would be alone. And as she stood at the edge of the pool, she thought of her 17th-great-grandmother and wondered how like her she might be.

She prayed – every day through and every night until her eyes grew gritty with sleep and could no longer stay open. Then to her mind and tongue came the words, glory, glory, glory, and she had taken it as a sort of instruction. That was the third week. As the seventh week of her efforts began, doubt knocked. But no! She would not give in. Blessing and clarity had come before and it could come again. It would. She closed her eyes and spoke over the polluted pool. Glory, glory, glory.

On the seventh day of the seventh week she heard it: a faint drip. Glory. Then another. Glory. And another. Glory. But it didn’t stop. It grew into a gurgle somewhere up the path of the mountain spring, then crescendoed into melodious splashes that hurled down the mountain, landing in the pool. Before her eyes, the algae dissipated, cattails and sedum revived, and scum was washed away. And the pool greeted again the blue sky with a perfect reflection. A perfect, glorious reflection.

Glory! Glory! Glory!

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