Christmas Day

On Christmas day, I drove to a local river intending to fish for a couple of hours. When I arrived at the stream, there were no other cars parked along the road. I imagined most of the fishermen were home with their families for the holiday, visiting with their families, opening gifts, and having a big turkey or ham dinner.

While gearing up, I felt a twinge of guilt as if I was stealing holiday time from my wife. She has always understood my need for solitary time, even when I knew that it bothered her. Home was calling me but I needed a little quiet time to refresh my soul before I left. I walked alone down the path that follows the river downstream.

The path follows the river downstream through a cedar swamp and the old cedars have tolerated anglers for many years. The noble, old trees have lined the path with roots and stumps to slow the humans down and trip them up if possible.

Along the worn path of cedar roots and slouching branches I walked that Christmas day. The swamp took on the feel of a cathedral decorated with snow that fell on the emerald arms of its elders. Except for an occasional bird reminding me to watch my step, the only sound was the river singing the ethereal, ancient litany of its devoted processional. Eventually, the river’s voice will dissipate as it enters the lake, then into Lake Michigan on its long, now silent, pilgrimage to the sea.

As I walked along listening to the river’s inflections, I came upon a small memorial stone sitting beside the river. It was not there a few months ago. It’s inscription read:

"Your memory is our keepsake

With which will never part.

God has you in his keeping

We have you in our hearts."

On the stone rested an unlit, but deeply melted candle. Above the memorial, six small ornaments hung from a cedar branch. Nearby, another elder Cedar held a string of lettered beads that spelled "James".

I reached into the pocket of my jacket and retrieved two wooden matches left there from the summer camping season. I lit the candle and stood silently beside the river listening to its soft resonant song. I instinctively knew how much James must have loved this river and others like it. He must have visited this stream often, certainly to catch trout, salmon, and steelhead, but I wondered how many times he passed by here to pause and rest his soul as I was doing.

I was meeting James for the first time, but as with all outdoorsmen, we are eternal kindred souls. I knew how he felt about this place. I knew he was the river’s friend and guardian. As I stood there, my spirit thanked his for leaving the river so pristine and wild.

Next to the beaded string hung a small silver heart engraved with the name "Emma". The little streamside memorial told me that his beloved Emma cherished James. She must have shared and loved this river with him and she also knew its secret peace. I said a silent prayer for her accompanied by the river’s unending melody. I felt her loss and sensed her weeping deep in my soul.

I sensed that the stream was not for me today. Today it belonged to those who went before me. I blew out the candle and walked quietly back down the path. By the time I returned to the road, I knew where I belonged. I removed my gear and then drove home to my own beloved who was waiting patiently for my return on Christmas day.

Royal Dun