Soft Like Water

My father was a simple man and one of few words. Despite his simplicity I sensed his greatness, his integrity, and his willingness to live in the present. One of his favorite activities was taking his boat to a nearby lake to “go fishin’.” Occasionally, I accompanied him on his fishin’ trips. Although he threw his fishing line into the lake, he rarely caught any fish. Yet, for hours he sat quietly and contentedly, his flat bottom boat bobbing in the lake’s still waters. I wasn’t bored bobbing in the boat with him. I was delighted just to be in his presence and to watch the sun’s rays as they reflected off the waters.

With regularity at high noon, he’d reel in his line, open his cooler, and prepare our lunch—soggy saltine crackers covered with spam and cheese slices. During lunch, we rarely exchanged words, for he didn’t want to disturb the beautiful silence. Occasionally, though, he’d say something. Such was the case that summer afternoon. I think I was 16.

He turned to me and said, “Be strong like water.”

I must’ve looked puzzled because in my mind water evaporated too easily and was too soft to be strong except in the winter when even the surface of the lake’s water stiffened in the cold, brisk winter winds. But I’d come to know that Pop spoke in riddles that I often had to ponder and decipher. He scooped up some water in his hands and said, “See. Water looks soft, but it isn’t. Yes, it’s pliable and flexible; it flows beautifully offering no resistance. But in that state it’s strong—strong enough to slowly create creek beds and even the Grand Canyon. Be strong like water.”

Without saying another word, he turned away from me and returned to fishing, leaving his metaphor firmly planted in my mind. As I matured into womanhood, I came to deeply appreciate my father’s simple ways and his eloquent, uncomplicated wisdom. Long after his passing, I delight in my father’s wisdom which, aside from his love, was the greatest gift I ever received.

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