A Fisher of Men, A Fisherman

   He is one of my gifts. He is one of my graces. He is not perfect and neither am I, but he is loved and admired by all who meet him. His spirit emanates Gods acceptance, his ability to give without measure is astonishing. He has been long on this earth and he leaves a legacy of grace. One of my greatest joys is bearing witness to my 88 year old father putting on his waders and fly fishing. He has been doing it since he was a little boy and it comes as natural to him as his breath. He and the river speak the same language. It was the language taught to my brother and me when we were just small.  It was the language passed down from my grandfather and his father before him. I take out my camera and capture the day, watching him still sure footed in water up to his knees at times casting the line. A fisher of men, a fisherman. He wears the same hat his father wore for over a half a century. The sun beat down upon the brim and the sweat of a grandfather and a father and a brother and a sister stains the cloth with our DNA. Our blood print,that  the river runs through it. The hat is beyond ripe, but he and I love it. I will hang it on a wall when he is gone. Watching him on the river leaves me all bare ripe in God’s glory upon his created being, my father.

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