SERMONS IN STONE: A FATHER'S DAY REMEMBRANCE

                                 "And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
                                  Finds tongues in trees, books in running brooks,
                                  Sermons in stones, and good in everything."

                                                           Shakespeare

My father was a plain-spoken man who knew little about the works of Shakespeare. I am certain, nonetheless, that he would have smiled in both recognition and delight if he had discovered this little meditation on nature from As You Like It.

An avid fisherman, my father spent most Sundays of his life "floating the creeks" that snake through southern Mississippi in route to the Gulf of Mexico.  The creeks were his churches, he often told me, places where a man, unadorned in Sunday finery, could go and worship in silence -- not by talking, not by petitioning -- but by listening.

Black Creek, Mississippi

Some of the local gentry in our community, particularly the local Baptist minister, were highly suspicious of my father's rationale for not attending church on Sunday mornings; in their view, the mere suggestion that fishing had a spiritual dimension was evidence that the fisherman had grown delusional in his search for the elusive large-mouth bass.  I knew better, however, because I had joined my father in the church of his choice on many occasions.

One trip, in particular, stands out when I remember my father on this Father's Day. It was a trip when I was about ten or eleven years old and just beginning to pay attention to what my father had been saying to me for years.  As I recall, we pushed our skiff into the creek just after sunrise, with my father sitting in the bow seat, while I -- grateful to be invited to join him -- directed the boat from the stern.  As we drifted slowly downstream, my father's fishing rod remained placed in his lap while he surveyed the sky, the trees, and the water gliding beside the boat.  "Look at the water," he said, " and tell me what you see."  When I replied that I saw "just water," he looked puzzled for a moment and then tried again.  "Look deeper," he said, "look at how the colors of the water change with each change in the depth of the creek. Yellow-orange means shallow water, deep orange a little deeper, and black means you're in the deepest part of the creek.  And pay attention as we reach this bend up ahead; watch how the water picks up speed in the eddies and sends pretty little whirlpools dancing downstream."

Before I could digest the relevance of what my father was showing me, he had moved into the tree life. "Look in these trees up ahead," he said; then, noticing that my response was less than awestruck, he continued.  "Not at the trees, George, in the trees.  Look at the specks of red and blue and gold that move about so quickly that you can hardly focus your eyes. Those are some of the most beautiful birds in the world -- cardinals, bluejays, goldfinches -- and if you listen closely, you will hear the sounds of another kind of bird, sounds that move back and forth across the creek. Those are whippoorwills, and they will call back and forth to one another all night long."

Finally, my father proceeded to fish, and in keeping with his reputation in the community, he soon caught enough for our weekly needs.  As the day was fading, however, he cautioned me to remain quiet for a few more minutes as we approached a pool of deep, black water behind a cypress stump.  "Quiet now.  I know he's in there.  Just watch the figure eight of my line as it curls around your head, and then follow the fly to a point about six inches above the water, where the magic will happen."  Before I could even look upward, there was a sudden explosion in the water as a large bass jack-knifed and grabbed the fly in mid-air.  "Just like I said, son. Just like I said."  He then reeled the fish in, brought it aboard, and laid it down on the middle seat to show me its contours and colors.  "Have you ever seen anything in nature quite like that," he said, and then gently released the fish back into the water.  "We have enough," he said. "Never take more than you need."

At that point, my father put his fishing rod down and we just drifted down the creek to the bridge at which we would "take out."  The sun began to fade, herons fed along the shadowed sandbars, and my father remained silent, but for one whispered admonition: "Don't make noise with your paddle, son.  We're in no hurry. Just slide the paddle blade in the water and use it as a rudder to keep us in the middle of the creek while we enjoy the beauty of this place."  He did not want the silence of his church to be disturbed by any human commotion; nor did I.

So this is what I learned from my dad on that memorable day many decades ago. Pay attention to the miracles of life happening before your eyes in every moment; listen to the rhythm of life in all of its many forms; and honor creation by traveling lightly and taking only what you need.  I will always be grateful for these lessons, and, whenever possible, I try to honor my father by finding "tongues in trees, books in running brooks, sermons in stone, and good in everything."

Happy Father's Day, Dad.  I hope you are spending this day on a creek somewhere.

P.S.  I have just returned from my coast-to-coast hike across England.  Today's posting in remembrance of my father was written before I departed and saved for this Father's Day.