Yesterday afternoon I walked down to the river with my son and grandson. The river has changed a lot since I was a kid. Our family’s place is on the inside of a curve and the river keeps stretching out and moving farther away from the cabins. Some day the river might decide to move back and dig a new channel closer to the place. But it is still the same river. The rushing water flows over river rocks and boulders that share their name with the river.

We were only down by the river for a half hour or so, but it was a wonderful time for me. Sunday afternoons were often time for fishing for my father. He’d stand on the bank or wade into the stream and float a few grasshoppers down the river to catch a few trout for supper or the next morning’s breakfast. My grandson spent the time throwing rocks into the water and enjoying the splash. My son and I skipped rocks across the water. The trick is to find the right rock that will skip all the way across the water and land on the opposite bank. Interestingly, it isn’t always the roundest stone that makes it. One with a bit of a notch so that you can get a really good spin works well.

I couldn’t help thinking how much my dad would have enjoyed my grandson. My father died before my son was born, so they never met face to face. There have, however, been a lot of stories. Standing there on the riverbank at the edge of the property for which my father worked so hard, a deep joy came over me. How fortunate I am to be able to share this place and some of its stories with my grandson. How fortunate I am to have a son who takes a few days out of his busy life to bring his children to meet us here.

It has been glorious to have our children and grandchildren together for three days. Of course, it seems short and it is a bit sad that we have to go our separate ways, but it really has been wonderful. One of the joys of being an elder is the way that memories stack on top of each other. Walking to the river, carrying my grandson whose three-year-old feet stumble and get stuck in the rocks, I could remember so many other times of going down to the river. It was our play place, our fishing hole, and one of the places our father could find some peace and get away from the relentless pace of his work. It was the place I would go for some peace and contemplation when I was a student. Susan and I spent the summer here after our first year of marriage and we’ve come back again and again to share the place with our children and now our grandchildren.

We are people of many stories. Some have called our people “The people of the Book.” For hundreds of generations, we have honored and kept the sacred stories of our people. We turn to them for guidance when we feel lost and for meaning when we are struggling to make sense of life. We read the stories at weddings and funerals in part to remind ourselves that ours isn’t the first generation to know the deep joys and sorrows of life. We read the stories to remind ourselves that God is always calling us towards a future and that our people will be walking with God long after our time on this earth has reached its conclusion.

There are a lot of special places in the stories of our people. I have never been to many of those places. I haven’t climbed Mt. Nebo to look across the Jordan to the promised land. I haven’t gone up Horeb or touched my toes in the Sea of Galilee. I know those places only through the stories. One day I may travel to those places, but if I never go there, they will still have a certain familiarity to me because the places play a role in the stories.

And there are places in the less-ancient stories as well. I often think of my life’s journey in terms of the churches where I have worshiped. The church where I was baptized is still standing a short walk from the house where I grew up. The church I attended in college and where Susan and I were married has added a new sanctuary and is a bigger building than it was when we were there. When we went to seminary, there were several churches, but prominent in m memory is Union Church in Hinsdale where I interned. Then there are the two churches in North Dakota 16 miles apart and Wright Church in Boise, Idaho. And now our home church is a beautiful structure in the Black Hills. These are all special places of my spiritual journey.

And it is good to go back to the old places. The past week has been a journey of places of my childhood and growing-up years. Being in the places reminds me of the stories and of the people with whom we shared the journey. Those who were my elders have come to the ends of their lives. There have been a lot of funerals and memorial services in these places. But they continue to be present in my life and in the stories I tell to my children and grandchildren.

It is time to turn my attention towards home and the work that still lies before me in the church I serve. But it has been good to take a break and pause for a few moments to visit the places and tell the stories of the journey and to remember the people who have filled it with richness and meaning.

Who knows, perhaps one day our grandson will take his son to the river to toss in a few rocks and tell a few stories.

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