Monday, July 25, 2005

Aim Small

This post was originally published on my first blog, "Dad's Corner."

If you're into history like I am, you already know that weapons have been increasing in accuracy and range since the first bronze-tipped spears.  A javelin used in the Olympics is much more lethal than a primitive spear.  Likewise, a 50-caliber rifle is a great improvement over a musket from the Revolutionary War.  Yet, that war had its sharp-shooters that could hit their targets with surprising accuracy. 

Muskets were smooth bore rifles that shot a lead ball.  When fired, the hot gasses would push the ball down the barrel, much like today's guns.  However, because the inside of the barrel was smooth, the ball would come out spinning in a single direction.  So, like a curveball thrown by a baseball pitcher, it would arc through the air and go off-target further and further.  At a range of 200 yards, the musket was much less reliable than it was under 100.  Having a group of sharp-shooters would give you a keen edge in any battle. 

In the Revolutionary War movie, The Patriot, Mel Gibson's character Benjamin Martin reminds his sons about what they learned in hunting: "Aim small, miss small."  In essence, he was saying that if you aim at an animal or soldier, you will have less of a chance at hitting your target than if you focus in on a smaller portion of the target, like a tuft of fur or a button.  Even if you didn't hit the button, you would still be much more likely to hit the soldier wearing the button.

Most of us want to be great fathers.  Not just good fathers, but great ones.  But in your mind, what does that look like?  Does it mean spending time with your children in the evenings when you get home from work?  If so, how much time?  Does it mean taking one of your children out for some one-on-one time?  If so, then how often would you go out?  Put the target up there, get as small as you can on the bulls-eye, and then exhale and pull the trigger.  You may not hit your exact mark, but you'll come a lot closer to hitting the mark as a great father.

Aim small, miss small.

Sunday, July 24, 2005

Fishing Beaver Dams

This post was originally published on my first blog, "Dad's Corner." 

It was hot. It was humid. And every few feet or so, you had to protect yourself from being slapped in the face by willow branches. At the age of 11, they stood over me like a forest. Marching though the morass, I was sure my dad was crazy. Perhaps he was driven by the thought of pan-fried trout with lemon juice. I'm not sure. But we were doing something that other people could think was fisherman's excess. We were fishing in beaver dams.

Beavers are engineers that use the materials at hand to construct massive dams across small brooks and creeks as part of making their home. Their dams retain significant amounts of water. Some dams can achieve a massive size, sometimes filling up most of a small valley. In these small reservoirs, trout breed and grow, sustaining small, industrious beavers and large, crazed fishermen.

These dams that we were in were not so large and they were choked by willow bushes, their elastic branches slowing our progress. Long grass would cover up beaver channels, which would be 1 or 2 feet deep with water, providing a soaking for whoever is fortunate to find them. My dad and I were prepared for this with hip waders, long thigh-high rubber boots that kept your legs dry...when they didn't leak. They were heavy, and in the days before neoprene, hot and sweaty.

With my dad's approval, I went down to the dam below him and worked my way through the willows toward a point where I could fish it. I approached the water and tried to get down to what looked like the perfect spot. I saw my next step, a bank of darker sand and I took it, putting all my weight on what looked like a sand bank. My foot and a good portion of my leg plunged into the brown bank which was actually a combination of mud and silt. My knee sank in and I was up to my thigh before I could compensate and pull back. To my horror, my leg was stuck and I couldn't pull it out. I panicked. I thought for sure this was some obscure form of Rocky Mountain quicksand that would be the end of me. I could see my dad searching for me only to find my little fishing cap sitting on top of my muddy grave.

I yelled-no, screamed-for my dad. When he didn't respond in the millisecond I patiently allowed for a reply, I screamed again. Soon a far-off voice called, "What?"

"It's got me! It's got my leg. I can't move!"

"What's got your leg?"

"The mud! Hurry! Come quick!"

"Just a second."

I allowed two seconds before I screamed again. "Dad!"

"What?"

"Come get me!"

"I'll be there in a minute."

Oh great! We've gone from seconds to minutes. "Dad, I can't get out!"

"Are you stable?"

"Well...yeah..."

"I'll be there in just a minute. Can you fish from there?"

"Well...yeah..." I was now faced with the odd task of carrying on with life as normal while I balanced on my right foot with my left leg gripped by the mud of death. I tried to fish, half-heartedly, and didn't catch anything. But the panic began to subside and my hot tears dried up. I even began to feel an odd sense of confidence that I would be all right. By the time the willows announced my dad's imminent arrival, I was relatively calm. He reached down and pulled on me, slowly freeing me from my muddy trap.

Whether we caught any fish that day, I don't remember. But what I carried out of that beaver dam was much more valuable than what I had set out for. I found that what looks like sand can often be mud, that panic is normal but not helpful, and that my dad would always come for me when I needed him, but on his own sense of timing, not mine.

Oftentimes, God hears a panicked prayer and responds with less-than-equal enthusiasm. It doesn't mean he doesn't care or that he isn't concerned about our feelings. But what I feel is often different from what's really happening. He knows where I am and he is strong and able to save me. Then why doesn't he do it right away? Because I have to learn that panic is not the response that gets his attention. Fear is the root of panic and the opposite of the love and peace he so much wants me to know and walk in. I could not find it if he would fly to my rescue every time. It's only when I am quiet, when I put aside my panic and fear, that he can speak words of comfort and peace to me. I must wait on him; wait for him to rescue me.

Proverbs 3:25-26, Psalm 91:3

Monday, July 18, 2005

Eloquent Bleating

This post was originally published on my first blog, "Dad's Corner." It was moved to another site, lost, and found in my old files. This should be the only place you can find it.

As a writer, it’s always a battle to come up with just the right words to say and the order they go in. English is an incredibly bewildering language, and I won’t cover that topic here except to say that it is a mixture of Latin, French, northern European, Celtic, Welsh, and Saxon. Any language with that many contributors is bound to have more than a few quirks.

Saturday, July 16, 2005

Long's Peak: Voices In the Dark

This post was originally published on my first blog, "Dad's Corner." You can view the original post at: http://homeschoolblogger.com/stevewalden/8403/

It had been a long day. Rising before 4 AM, we climbed 8 miles and 4,880 feet in elevation to the summit of Longs Peak, a huge mountain dominating Colorado's Front Range. One of the last parties to reach the summit that day, the sun was setting on us while we were less than halfway down. The fact that we had forgotten to bring flashlights was not lost on us, but there was little we could do. With just a little light left, we came to a group of tents and asked if anyone could spare a flashlight. We ended up with a small flashlight for our party of 4. That and the faint glow of moonlight was all we had to guide us home. Our legs aching and our toes complaining with every step, we carefully picked our way through boulders and down the trail. All the way down, my dad's voice continued to coach me and his faint outline gave me an idea of where to go.

Friday, July 15, 2005

Checked Out

This post was originally published on my first blog, "Dad's Corner." You can view the original post at: http://homeschoolblogger.com/stevewalden/8195/

If you've been home schooling for any length of time, by now you've discovered the benefits of the local library.  There, parents and their children can peruse books and check them out without any cost.  This is a boon to readers and parents looking for new ideas.