Dew Dreams

'tis the soul's August,
whose roots are tightly compact'd--
water stagnates and rots the soil.
Nothing seems to pass through it.

In dreamy night air does
it imagine,
a haze of soft rain,
to refresh the hell
of the hot day.

Autumnal glimpses
are found deep within,
deadening the murmuring
below.

And nothing sticks to it,
vanishing up like
morning dew.

Dirty Faith

Faith without dirty hands is meaningless.
Dig just a little and feel the creed of life,
buried in the sand.
Rub it between your fingers,
play with it some,
smell its sweet rawness.
There's life there,
for sure.
Burrow down.
Persevere till you find the roots.
Harvest the bounty, it's there for a reason.
Fear not,
water will wash your hands clean.

Gone Fishing

I must apologize for neglecting my blog and explain.

Following seminary, I've moved twice, landing back at my first alma mater, Hampden-Sydney College where I am hard at work reconstructing the College's annual giving program.  I am serving in an interim capacity.  My life is still packed in boxes, spread out between my apartment and storage.

Bear with me, please.  Pray for me, please!  Transitions in life, as you probably know, are often fraught with multiple challenges.  Maintaining one's sanity and sense of rootedness is chief among them.

I pray for you and I hope your summer is spirit-filled.  God's blessings to you.  I'm off to the lake for now.

Flies and Lies

The only fisherman who will tell the truth about where the fish are biting is your father.  And if your really lucky, which fly to tie on.  Don't bother asking anyone else, you'll get a fish story.

The annual father-and-sons fishing adventure saw another season in 2010 on the remote rivers in southwest Virginia.  Knee-deep in the summer stream with cowpies about and copperheads sunning on nearby rocks, I ask what more could any fisherman ask for?  Well, fish, of course.  Trout to be exact.  

Fly fishing is like learning to drive a standard--it requires both hands, some coordination, and a lot of finesse.  It's easy to get hooked (yes, I know--last pun) on what feels like a more artful way to fish.  Rhythm is essential in casting your line, soaring over the water with grace and precision.  My first fly fishing expedition took place in 1994, chest deep in the freezing waters of the Eagle River near Vail, Colorado.  Amid the falling snow, my guide helped me land a large, trophy Rainbow trout which afforded me familial bragging rights for eternity.  Ever since that audacious beginning, I managed to lose my way back to the streams--life and all the familiar distractions got in the way.                                                                

I admit there were times when I begrudgingly went along on those fishing trips with my dad and brother.  It seems my older brother was always eager and I was always looking for excuses.  I could not for the life of me understand why my dad was insistent upon this annual venture.  What is it about taking your sons out into the wilderness in search of these slimy, cold water fish?  Understandably, no teenager could solve that riddle, it took becoming a father myself to grasp an answer.  It goes without saying that fatherhood changes the game of life completely--it's no longer about YOU but about THEM. Sharing your passions with those you love is a profound exercise of trust and fidelity, especially when you reveal the choicest fishing holes or that a copperjohn fly is the best for this stream.   

So the answer of course is priceless.  A bad day fishing is always better than any good day at work.  Adding your son or daughter (or both in my case) only sweetens the deal.  It's not about catching fish, even though that's always the stated premise.  It's about doing something timeless together without distraction and without the pressures of everyday life.  And yes it's true, time manages to stop temporarily as you wade deep into the streams.    

Time, flies, and lies make up the passion of fly fishing.  It's magic worked on me, I no longer drag my feet at an invitation.  I get it now and it makes sense.  Something tells me that my own children will probably act just as I did.