When I was eight years old, my dad taught me to fly fish from his boat. I loved watching his technique and longed to learn. The graceful arc of his rod positioned the artificial fly inches from the bank with a gentle landing. After Daddy’s casts—when the tiny ripples subsided—we…
Tag: patience
Two Memories of My Dad
Memory 1: Silent communication in church When I sat beside my dad in church, he would squeeze my hand twice which meant he was asking, “Love me?” I would return two squeezes to say, “Uh huh.” His next two squeezes translated, “How much?” I would squeeze his hand with my…