In 1977 my father bought 35 acres of land just outside my hometown of Pittsburg, Kansas. I think he bought it with the idea in mind that he would raise a small herd of cattle to make a little extra money, maybe as some kind of tax write off, or more likely as a solitary reprieve from us four children. I’m not sure because my father wasn’t a rancher, he was a lawyer and the only herd I ever saw there amounted to about 5 cows. I don’t believe one can classify that as a herd. We had more dogs at home, and I thought of those cows more as pets, or eventual steaks and hamburgers in our garage “deep-freeze” than a microcosm of the beef processing industry.

           In any case, it was a beautiful piece of property with a balanced mix of grassy meadows, mature trees, and two small ponds. The larger pond sat in a flat open area about 300 yards from the front gate. It was the shallow, muddy pond our “herd” used to quench their thirsts and cool their hides when the August weather sweltered.

           The second pond was tucked away in a heavily wooded section of the land, encircled with a raised embankment to contain its contents. Due to the incline, then drop into its deeper water, the circumference’s rampart discouraged the cattle, and it became an undisturbed and quiet oasis I often used to fish. With a diameter of maybe 60 or 70 yards, it wasn’t a particularly big body of water, but it was much more beautiful than the other cloudy and hoof-dotted water source the cows had called “dibs” on.  Nestled in the most wooded area of the property, the second pond was hidden amongst Bur and Shumard Oaks, Red Maple trees, Hackberry’s, and a spattering of Evergreens. Its water was dark, but clear and generally very still due to the wind protection it received from the canopied forest that surrounded it.

           In 1977 I was thirteen years old and often rode my bike the 5 or 6 miles from our house to the property to fish in that little pond or hunt squirrels with a .22 caliber rifle. On days I pedaled the route with a fishing rod and small tackle box, it must have been reminiscent of a scene from Huck Finn, or Opie from “The Andy Griffith” show walking the dirt road with his cane pole.  Pittsburg was not as small as Mayberry, but it had its similarities. Other days, when squirrel hunting was on the agenda, I’d ride down Main Street, by the small college, the 15-store  indoor shopping mall, and a couple of churches with my rifle slung over my shoulder and hanging off my back. In 1977 in southeast Kansas, no one looked twice at an early teen on his bike, toting a rifle across town. It was nothing out of the ordinary. If that was today, I’d be in a grainy picture or video on the internet with a cop’s knee on my back and my face pressed against the asphalt awaiting handcuffs, interrogation, then therapy.  The only squirrels would be the ones they believed were running around in my head! Back then there were no such deterrents, and I loved fishing and hunting on that land. As I grew older, I used it for more nefarious reasons, of which, I’m certain, my parents were fully aware!

           Fall was my favorite time of year to visit the property. The cool, crisp air, the brilliant reds, yellows, oranges, purples, and golden bronzes of the season sprinkled the landscape and engulfed my little pond with vivid reflections of the kaleidoscope’s canopy that hovered overhead. The surface of the water was a still, glass portrait only disturbed by a small red and white bobber and the rare disappearance of it when pulled under by a perch. It was so quiet and peaceful, a serene escape where thoughts could flow freely without challenge, correction, or judgement. This was a place where you could feel God’s presence.

           When the fish weren’t biting, which was almost always, my boredom would lead me to throwing small rocks into the still pond which violently broke its surface tension. I would toss the stone 20 or 30 yards into the center of the pond and be fascinated by its crashing impact, then mesmerized by the formation of perfectly concentric circles that expanded across the entirety of the pond, reaching the surrounding shores at the same time, and redirecting the colorful fallen leaves, once floating aimlessly. The water bugs would jump, and small waves would rush against the banks making their dry edges moist with perspiration.

This pond has been a childhood memory that has forever been etched into my memory and one that not only represents but brings me peace. I often replay it in my mind on sleepless nights when fear, anxiety, and doubt hijack my thoughts. I think of the stillness of that pond, its quietness, and its beauty. It is a scene that calms and quiets my sometimes not so beautiful thoughts. I can feel the cool air and a light breeze that whispers through my hair. Memories like this have the persistence of resurfacing, vacillating between my conscious and unconscious, gnawing, sometimes haunting, but always reminding me there is a reason for its permanence. This idyllic episode became my muse, a lifelong source of inspiration and creativity that hasn’t left me, been interpreted, nor uncorked until now. It is the impetus for this book.

           As I ponder the far-reaching impact of one small stone crashing into my father’s pond, I am struck by the great analogy it represents. If a simple stone and the small effort of a toss can change the entirety of a pond’s structure, then what human efforts can impact the complex structure of humanity, of family, of community, and of life itself? What constructive stones can we throw in this life that result in exponential change and ones that can create the same concentric ripple effects we see in my father’s pond? In “The Father’s Pond”. What positive miracles can we initiate if we are willing to lose our fears, take risks, and throw the stones of change.  Conversely, I am also frightened and distraught by the inverse. What negative actions taken in life create waves of pain, sorrow, anger, resentment, regret, and sadness? These are stones we often throw, inconsiderate of their risks or consequences. Both sides of the equation must be considered. “The Seven Stones” everyone should throw, and the seven stones everyone should keep in their pockets become the message and personal journey of this book.

What if every choice you made created ripples that extended far beyond your own life?

Drawing on the powerful image of a stone cast into a quiet pond, The Seven Stones explores how our smallest decisions, words, acts of courage, and moments of kindness can influence generations. Through compelling stories, biblical wisdom, and practical insight, the book challenges readers to consider the legacy they are creating—and the ripples they will leave behind long after they are gone.