Peace Be Still

When I was about 19 years old, Uncle Billy and I sat fishing in a 12-foot flat-bottomed boat on a 10-acre pond outside Roanoke, Virginia. The sun began to rise, revealing thin wisps of fog dancing on the mirrored surface, reflecting the Blue Ridge Mountains, with dense mats of lily pads surrounding us. As the sun continued to rise we were regaled with subtle pops, like corks escaping champagne bottles. Then all around us lily pods burst open and the young, pink-white flowers greeted the dawn.