[A
Tuesday / Thursday Variety Feature of the First Road Blog]
A
branch thrust gently upward from one trunk
and resting against the other
served as both deck and bow.
There was no gang plank.
As soon as the boy
was tall enough
to reach the remnants of lower limbs,
he easily hoisted himself
on board.
There was no ocean,
but the flexible prow beneath his weight
could be
made to plow the fiercest sea.
And atop the mast, southern hills
beckoned to
less simple places.
His grandmother must never have seen him
swaying where the
wind
whispered its invitations to dream
and sometimes dried lonely tears.
And
so the simple boy and the simple boat
sailed on
long after pretending passed.
One day,
he would not remember when,
he climbed the mast
to climb no more.
to climb no more.
It must have been awhile.
Now perched among the sacred limbs,
he found the crow's nest smaller,
more complex,
more complex,
awkward,
less welcome
intimidating;
and the distant hills less mysterious…
or,
maybe more so.
He
had been among them,
and discovered a new Adventure –
a Man
to follow,
a God to love,
a cause to embrace,
a destiny to pursue.
When he disembarked that day
did he say "good-bye?"
The moment is lost to memory.
In time he left the simple home
in the
simple village
atop the simple hill.
The seas he has sailed
have been the Real Adventure,
more than a boy could imagine,
There is no wish to go back.
But still,
the heart feels a sadness
in knowing
the Maple Tree Boat
