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 patiently watched to see if a fish would bite. Fishing with an eight-year-old requires an extra measure of patience. One day my entire rod landed in the lake, but Daddy rescued it before it sank. My flies would often land a few feet in front of the boat with a…
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 two as hard as I could to express my love for the man I most admired. Then, I’d re-start the silent conversation by asking him the first question in the sequence. I’d stifle giggles when he’d wrap my hand in his and apply gentle pressure to indicate how much he…