Near the northwest corner of our farm in western Kentucky, there was a small woods. Probably no more than an acre of so of hickory, oak, and ash, with a scattering of scrub brush and maybe a dogwood or two. Inside that small plot of trees was an even smaller pond.
If memory serves me well, and it still does from time to time, the pond was oval shaped, about fifty feet across and a hundred feet long. Though I never measured, I would guess that it was not more than six feet deep in its center. Surrounded by trees, the water was stained by the accumulated years of leaves decomposing at its bottom. A hint of bronze color tinted its clear water. Located near the top of the slope, it was never the muddy color of the bigger pond that Dad hired dug over between one of the tobacco barns and the hay barn.
Sometimes, I would go up to the little pond and pitch rocks in for the sole purpose of watching the ripples spread out across the water. Perfect circles of concentric motion spreading across the surface and moving all the way to the banks. I noticed that the ripples always made it to the closest bank first but eventually reached all sides. And then, each time, the ripples would get smaller and smaller and then gradually fade out. When the surface was once again calm and smooth, I’d pitch in another rock.
Sometimes, I’d pitch in two rocks at different spots and watch their respective ripples move out. In the space in between, they’d intersect and seem to move through each other, only slightly diminished by the collision. Other times, I’d get the biggest rock I could find and heave it out as far as I could. The bigger the rock, the bigger the ripples. Of course, right where the big rocks entered the water, they’d create something like an explosion. With a loud “kerplunk,” they sunk rapidly and sent up a plume of water at the spot. Then, the ripples.
At some point, I got the idea of tossing out a dry stick and trying to hit it with a big rock to see if I could sink it. Nope, never could. Even though it might get really socked and bob up and down, I was never able to sink a stick with even the biggest rock.
Recently, those memories of rocks and ripples resonated with the news that Randa’s brother had just been diagnosed with cancer. A couple of months earlier, my first wife and the mother of my six children found out she has cancer in pretty advanced stage. Several months ago, a member of a church where I used to preach. Over the years, there’d been others: my grandfather Pop Herndon when I was just eleven or twelve years old, Randa’s dad Scottie Burleson when he was only sixty-three. My first father-in-law back in the Eighties. My oldest sister about ten years ago. Parents of friends and folks I knew at church. Friends and colleagues. Some have survived, some have not.
Each time, the news hit like a rock plunging into a quiet pond. The closer the relationship, the bigger the splash and the longer the ripples last. Sometimes it’s just another disruption and sometimes it feels like the rock landed right on top of you.
In every case, I am reminded of my own mortality and the nature of nature in this world. Each splash, each ripple, a measure of relationship and empathy and caring. Each stone brings its own testings into the waters; each splash reveals the nature of our own faith and resilience.
One day, every stone will lie quiet beneath the water, anchored into the ongoing transformation of leaves and silt far beneath the surface. Every ripple will have faded into the banks.
Yet I will still give thanks for every moment and every memory, still praise the One Who Walks Upon the Waters. And take comfort from the voice that calmed the seas.
Reflections by Doc Arnett 