The other boys splashed, swam, or paddled around in the river, but the current was too strong for Isaac. He’d grab onto a rock, and say, “Ok, Daddy. Let go.” I would, and he would hang on for a few seconds, until his hands slipped, or the rock worked loose from the clay, and he’d go floating downstream until I caught him. We worked out a system, where he’d lay belly-down in the water, wedged up against my legs. That would hold him in position, so he could dip his head under the water, goggles on, and watch the fish swim past. There were fish, dozens, hundreds of them, ranging from a few inches to a foot or more, swimming, darting out from under your shadow as you moved, hovering just beyond finger’s reach. Isaac must have been treated to an amazing show, of which, as his anchor, I received only a glimpse; but the water was shallow and clear. I saw just enough standing above him to be impressed – just enough of the fish, but so much more.
The river was perfectly flat, like a table, a table that was
alive and moving. The current was fast, but the water didn’t betray so much as
a ripple, except for where the boys played, then it curled up, bubbling,
gurgling, and complaining around their disturbance. The trees bent far out from
the shore, dangling over the water, full and green; but not with the bold
lushness of spring. The leaves bore the deep dark green tiredness of late
summer. The brown of the river, and dark of the trees popped against the bright
blue sky, which was littered with clouds; not the white clouds of your dreams,
but just white at the edges, fading to heavier grays of moisture toward their
centers. The wind partnered the clouds to tell the tale of a coming storm. The
wind carried a coolness on it, a coolness unthinkable just a few weeks before. But
there it was. The orange glow of an August afternoon, the tired trees, the cool
wind: summer was ending. I stood and took it all in, glued to the rocky bottom,
an anchor in the river, deprived of the fish-show below, and I didn’t mind at
all.
C. S. Lewis once wrote, “Where ancient man felt himself guided through an immense cathedral, modern man feels adrift on a shoreless sea.” My children happily remind me that I am old, but I don’t think they’ve ventured so far as “ancient.” Still, I’ve always carried a suspicion that I may have been happier in another age, when things maybe weren’t simpler, just different.
Our summer was full. I don’t say busy. Life is always busy.
Summer was full. It is not an overstatement to say I was either packing,
traveling, or unpacking. Many times, there was no unpacking, only laundry and
leaving once again. I wasn’t happy about our summer schedule. It was too much,
I thought. It left little time for contemplating, less for reading, and none
for writing. All the systems and practices which keep me sane were set aside.
All my cherished projects were abandoned. I had to live and operate differently
than I preferred for several months. I was not happy; but I was also wrong. In
hindsight, my summer experience can best be described with Lewis’ words,
“guided through an immense cathedral.” Each trip, each excursion, was like
blinking my eyes to reveal another spectacle of creation. I did not study. I
did not meditate. I did not need to. God was showing off, and whispering in my
ear through it all.
In Jamaica, the water glows at night, “Just dip your hand in
and wiggle it around for your own personal light show; but pull your hand out
and for a few seconds your skin will sparkle like the stars. Now, go ahead,
just jump in. It’s mine, anyway. Tell them I said it’s okay.”
Driving to Wisconsin, “Let’s make a bet, I can make a road
longer than you can stay awake. And after you lose that bet, I’ll have another
road, and another, and another; and when you’ve gone ‘round them all, you’ll only
come ‘round to the beginning. This is just one of the places I’ve made.”
Watching the sun set across the Chesapeake Bay, “You liked
that? Come back tomorrow, and the next night. You know what? I’m going to give
you six of these, right in a row. The same thing every night, but always
different, always breathtaking.”
On the Youghiogeny River where the mountains and trees pinch
the sky into a narrow band, and the rapids can suck you into and underwater
cave, and never let you go, “Yes, this one is strong enough to hold you until
you die. I can hold you until it all comes alive.”
Cresting the last breaker in a kayak off the shore of North
Carolina, just in time to catch a dolphin surfacing a few dozen feet away,
“Scared you for a second, didn’t I? You wouldn’t believe what else I’ve got
down there.”
And finally, standing in a river bed a mile from my home,
lamenting missing the fish show, “You’re sad you missed that? Look around you,
here’s another show. In fact, it’s all a show, all the time. You
just haven’t been watching. Now you know.”
And that was my summer. Touring the cathedral with God
whispering brags in my ear. Each snapshot, and a thousand others I can never
share, melded into one image of the God who made us, loves us, and holds us all
together. . .
but I’m still not doing that crazy schedule ever again.
