I remember long ago a warm summer morning sitting on a grassy hill next to what used to be a stock pond. It just had blue gills and sunfish, ducks, frogs and turtles–the cattle long gone from the farm. Way too often, my grandfather patiently helped bait the hook because my attention would wander. I missed the opportunity when the bobber moved and the fish would have the worm.
With long cane poles, small hooks and red and white bobbers, we planned to catch a “mess of fish” for my grandmother to pan fry. My grandfather did most of the catching; I did most of the day dreaming. There was no wind; the sun shown bright; the few clouds sent me on imaginary journeys to far places.
My grandfather would flick the pole at just the right moment to hook the fish and swing it in. His attention did not waver. Like a cat intent on a bird in the lawn, he was poised, ready to set the hook. And the right moment came four times more often for him than me.
In our purpose-driven lives, I sometimes wonder about the place of time for imagination. Is there space in the calendar to stop and dream or wonder about the way things are? Are we so intent on success that we fail to dream?
Years ago, my grandfather had time in the midst of catching dinner to entertain a grandson. Perhaps that’s the way it is supposed to be.
Grace and Peace.
