The Quiet Old Man

The road ran along a bluff that kissed the Mississippi River. I was on the highest point in the county; a rise so mighty that even old man river couldn’t conquer it during the great flood of 2011. My feet crunched the gravel and sank slightly into the sand. Bugs made the temperature seem hotter than it was and the humidity made the eight miles seem like at least twice that. The thick, lush Delta growth wrapped my senses in a thick, green wool blanket. And the orange eye of the sun peeked over the Mississippi, setting the river on fire.

I looked down at my running watch and felt sweat drip off my nose: 7.5 — only a half-mile left to go. The finish was near.

Thanks be to God.

I walked up to the house and sat on the porch. Mopping my brow, I watched the muddy water continue to slip its way to New Orleans. I was struck by the quietness of the river. A dog barked in the distance but the river flowed by without a sound. You could see the strong current — particularly when a barge was heading downstream or when a random piece of flotsam shot past. It didn’t scream, look at me. It just didn’t it’s work.

And that’s when it struck me.

The Mississippi River is like the great people I know: Strong. Deep. Powerful. Swift. Bold, yet quiet. It quietly moves a continent with confidence. A small babbling stream has to let the world know of its greatness with its sound. Not Old Man river.

It’s about action, not words. Something I knew I should strive for. More water flowed by. There was something mesmerizing about it all.