There is a river in the old texts that has never stopped flowing.
Ezekiel sees it. It comes out from under the threshold of the temple, from beneath the place where God is enthroned, and it moves east. Ankle-deep at first. Then knee-deep. Then deep enough to swim in. The further it goes, the deeper it gets. And everything it touches lives.
John sees it too, in Revelation. The river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God through the middle of the city. Trees on either side. Fruit every month. Leaves for the healing of the nations.
They are not describing geography. They are describing something that is happening now.
There is a life that flows from the source. Not information about the source. The source itself. And it moves. It goes where it goes. It deepens as it travels. It does not wait to be managed or contained or understood before it begins to heal.
You can stand at the edge of that river. You can put your feet in. You can go further.
What you bring to the river matters less than you think. What the river is matters more than you have been told.
The Gospel of Thomas records a question put to the disciples: What is the sign of your Father in you? The answer given is this: It is movement and rest.
The river moves. It has always moved. And beneath the movement, beneath the current and the depth and the healing it carries everywhere it goes — there is rest. Not stillness as absence. Rest as ground. The kind that does not stop the river but holds it, from beneath, all the way to the sea.
Everything it touches lives. That has always been the promise.
Movement and rest. Both at once. That is the sign.