One of my best childhood memories is fishing with my father at the brickyard lakes, a series of ponds developed from the excavation of red Georgia clay. Dad had a small johnboat that we would launch in the dim light of early morning. A mist floated above the still water while the chilly air diminished when the sun came up. The only sound I remember was that of the water gurgling against the side of the boat as Dad methodically paddled and the occasional song of the red-winged blackbird announcing our arrival. This childhood memory may be my fondest. Though I felt a bit of fear as I peered into the dark water only inches from the side of the small boat, I was elated that Dad had chosen ME to go along on the trip.
I was number five of six children, the fourth son, sitting that day in a fishing vessel with very limited capacity. It was my father’s choice as to who came along and who stayed home. As the day unfolded, the sun would come out and melt away the morning mist. Then began the sound of the conveyors that carried the clay in huge buckets, suspended in the air along the side of the road, rumbling, squeaking, and groaning. Though loud at first, the rhythmic sounds soon faded into the background, comforting and soothing like the wheels of train cars tapping out a cadence as they passed over a trestle somewhere out in the distance. Soon, however, my elation turned to boredom as the young boy within me began to feel the constraints of limited space in the narrow boat seat.
My father must have had the patience of Job, for it seemed he could fish for eons of time. Calmly and slowly, he stirred the water with a paddle in his left hand while his right hand gently lifted his fly rod, causing his top-water bream bug to float through the air and land ever so effortlessly at the pond’s edge. With a slight flick of his wrist, the imitation insect wiggled its rubber band legs and announced to the fish below that luck and perhaps fate had provided a meal. The water beneath the lure erupted violently, and the bug disappeared from the surface with a slurping sound as the would-be predator suddenly found himself to be the victim.
This experience may have provided the greatest lesson that my father ever taught me. But for some reason, it took years for me to learn that the important thing was never about the fish or the prize. It was more about the opportunity to experience life in a different dimension.
All too often we get so caught up in the systemic rituals of our everyday attempts to survive on this planet that we become victims of our own routine. We trudge onward, laboring day after day for things we once thought significant, only to discover much too late that those things or promotions or success could never bring fulfillment. At great cost, we discover that the illusion of the "race" is a cruel hoax perpetuated upon humanity, by humanity itself. We become prisoners of our own making.
Seek to return to the pond while the early morning mist is still rising, to immerse yourself in the rhythms of the water slapping gently against the boat, to know the scents and sounds of nature calmly reminding you, once again, that YOU are your father’s choice. Understand that you have the opportunity to share this slice of serenity with someone you love. This is life that is meant to be savored, to be absorbed slowly, deep within our consciousness, so that when “the system” begins to numb our senses, we will be reminded there is indeed something more. . .
John 15:16: “You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you so that you might go and bear fruit—fruit that will last—and so that whatever you ask in My name, the Father will give you.”