Josiah had worn the old felt hat festooned with handmade flies and lures that his wife said she hated because it made him look unkempt. Etta Harte had prided herself on her sewing and ironing, and she’d always made sure her man looked his best when he went out her door. Josiah had worked his line, setting the hook into the deep water beneath a log where Delroy had spotted bass only the day before.
“You don’t know how to believe, Son,” Josiah had replied.
“I know, Daddy,” Delroy agreed. “That’s what I’m telling you. I don’t know how to believe. So how am I supposed to learn to believe?”
“You can’t learn to believe.”
Delroy had fumbled with that thought for a moment or two, testing it for inconsistencies. “Well, you did.”
“Nope.”
“Then how come you believe in the Lord so all-fired much if you didn’t learn how?”
Josiah had turned to his son with a big grin. He rubbed a hard hand across Delroy’s head. Working with fences and lumber and occasional construction to help out with congregation members’ projects over the years had left thick yellow calluses on his hands.
“You sure do a powerful lot of thinking, Son,” Josiah had said.
“Yes, sir. That’s what I intend to do.”
“Thinkin’ ain’t always good for a man. That’s one thing you can purely do too much of if you ain’t careful.”
“You always tell me to think about what I’m doing.”
Josiah had shrugged in resignation. “Well, Son, now I guess that would be about right. Your momma’s always after me about that, wanting me to think more. So I guess maybe you an’ me come by it righteous enough. But we didn’t come out here to think. We came to fish.”
“I know, Daddy. I just can’t help myself.”
Josiah had sighed, and even then Delroy had known his father was resigning himself to another interrogation. “No, I suppose you can’t. So what did you want to know?”
“How’d you get to learn how to believe so much?”
Josiah had hesitated a moment. “You might not be ready for this, Delroy.”
“You saying I ain’t old enough, Daddy?” Age hadn’t been something that Delroy let stand in his way in those days. His mother had taught him the word precocious because she was always calling him that and he’d asked Lutie the butcher what it meant one day while buying a chicken for the family stewpot.
“I didn’t say you weren’t old enough.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“God talks to you at different times in your life,” Josiah had said. “All you got to do is listen to Him.”
“I been listening. But He ain’t said a word.”
“Maybe now just ain’t the time. You’re still a little young.”
“So God don’t like talking to kids?”
Josiah had frowned long and hard. “God loves His children. Don’t you ever go lettin’ nobody tell you any different.”
His father’s swift and fierce reaction had scared Delroy a little. “No, sir. I won’t.”
Josiah had tried to return to his fishing, but Delroy knew that he’d come too far for his father to simply leave the matter lie. Delroy bided his time, knowing his father would get back to the conversation even though he was a little uncomfortable with it.
“I didn’t learn,” Josiah finally said after long minutes of silence.
“Didn’t learn what, Daddy?” Delroy had tried to appear innocent.
“I didn’t learn to believe. I chose to.”
“Chose to what?”
“Chose to believe in the Lord God Almighty. Ain’t that what we’re talking about here?”
“Yes, Daddy. But you ain’t giving me no answers.”
“I’m givin’ you all the answer there is. All the answer a man should ever need.”
“Well, then, I must be stupid because I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Josiah had never liked it when Delroy called himself stupid. At eight or nine, the threat of thinking of himself as stupid was always offered as bait to get his father to open up more when he became reluctant about a discussion topic.
“You see?” Josiah said. “That’s why I said you should wait on this here conversation.”
“Till when, Daddy?”
Josiah had scratched his head. “Well, you right about that. No man ought to wait on something like this. Not if he’s smart enough to be askin’ questions about it.” He’d looked around, then pulled up a flat stone from the creek bank. With a practiced effort, he’d sent the stone skipping across the creek. Every time the stone had touched the placid water surface, it bounced upward again, getting a little closer to the other side with each hop.
“Way to go, Daddy,” Delroy had crowed with childish glee. “That was a good one. You almost throwed that rock to the other side.”
Josiah nodded. “Now, when I tell you, I want you to close your eyes. Then open them again when I say so.”
“All right.” The exercise had seemed like a game. Delroy had always loved games. He’d closed his eyes and waited, hearing the whipsnap of his father’s shirt in the breeze.
“Now, Son, open them eyes and tell me what you see.”
Delroy had, and he’d seen the stone skipping across the creek even farther than the first one. “I see a stone hopping on the water.”
“Yes, sir, you do. Now tell me who threw that rock.”
Delroy had looked at his father warily. He hated it when people pulled tricks on him. The answer was so simple, so straightforward that there had to be a trick. But there also was no other answer. “Well, you did, Daddy.”
“Did I now? Did you see me throw that rock?”
“No, sir. You told me to keep my eyes closed.”
“Then you believe I throwed that rock.”
Delroy had nodded. No other
