My father cradled a stone in his palm, its edges smoothed by time. “It takes just the right one to skip,” he murmured, “sending ripples with every touch upon the water.” With a flick of his wrist, he cast it forth, and three perfect bounces danced across the lake’s glassy face. From each fleeting kiss, ripples bloomed outward, a fleeting echo, before the stone slipped beneath the depths. He stooped again, lifting another. “Your turn,” he said, guiding my hand. “Spin your wrist like so.” I let it fly, and though it obeyed his wisdom, my stone skimmed but twice. More practice, I knew, would stretch my ripples farther.
As the last whispers of my throw faded into the stillness, my father beckoned me to our boat. We glided homeward across the lake, pausing only to cast a line into its mysteries. Those stones, with their delicate arcs, became a mirror for our lives—vessels adrift on a vast sea, trailing wakes that touch unseen shores.
Picture the world as an endless expanse of water, each soul a boat carving its path. For nearly eighty years, we sail, mooring at landings woven into the tapestry of time. Our first harbor lies within the arms of youth, cradled by parents who nurture us toward bloom. We drift beside their docks—home’s sturdy planks, work’s steady tides, the laughter of friends, the lessons of school—tethered yet yearning.
Some among us stir the waters early, our deeds rippling beyond the shallows. A triumph in sport, a melody struck true, a bold endeavor—these lift us into the light, catching the eyes of those who paddle near. Yet for most, youth’s ripples are soft, mere whispers lapping at the shore—first loves, first labors, friendships unfurling beyond kin.
Then come those who plunge into college, a cascade of severance as they cut parental lines. They drift anew among kindred spirits, their boats bobbing through four or five summers until degrees crown their voyage. The boldest make waves—masters of the field, scholars of the mind, leaders of the throng—their wakes a testament to ambition’s swell.
Cast off from these shores, we steer toward the open waters of adulthood, paddling to stand alone. Some falter in the swell of first storms—new dwellings, interviews, unfamiliar tides—and briefly seek refuge at the parental dock, steadying their hulls. But soon we find our own moorings: a craft to call ours, a roof to shield us, a haven wherever it may rise. Here, we seek souls whose currents align with ours, companions for the hours beyond labor and lineage.
In this season, our wakes grow vivid, etched upon the waves. We glide past comrades, patrons, strangers who might become friends, each meeting a thread in a tapestry of thousands. Some greet this dance with ease, while others shrink from the tide of voices. With every encounter, we choose: to drift gently alongside, honoring their course, or to crash like a tempest, unsettling their seas.
Life’s ebb and flow offers both. I have known souls who tethered their boats to mine—through work, study, service, or the quiet grace of friendship. Their presence lingers like a calm tide, stirring smiles or a longing to sail once more. Yet others have churned the waters with disdain, leaving only wreckage in their wake—whether by chance or design, it matters little. Their names alone summon a shiver, a dread of crossing paths.
Not long ago, I met a voyager from thirty years past. Our first meeting had been a fleeting ripple—a hello, a smile, a captured moment in a photograph. But in this reunion, we traced the currents of old moorings, unearthing treasures we’d not known we shared. We spoke of Dallas, my fiddle teacher from youth, his stern wisdom and wry quips sparking laughter across the decades. What once seemed a faint touch swelled into a deeper wave, revealing how our separate journeys had brushed the same shores.
In that reflection, I saw my ripples endure beyond thirty winters—unimagined, yet cherished, as they returned to wash over me with grace. So it is with every soul we meet: a touch may ripple for a moment or echo through the years. As you chart your course, let your wake be a gentle gift, reaching far beyond the horizon. Like my father’s stone, skipping true across the lake, may my ripples—however humble—find a distant shore, guided still by his steady hand.
