It was early morning, the river was veiled in a bridal mist and through the sheer covering falling across the waters, I saw the bent shadow of a man. Edging his rowboat out into the icy Mississippi, the angle of the fisherman’s back told of a skilled professional, one who had gained his knowledge from the lessons of the river, pushing his craft out into the mysteries of another day.

The scene is etched in my mind, as early in the 70s, where snow had fallen in the night, on my way to the first of my three Calhoun churches, at the edge of rugged River Road, I saw him, a lone fisherman, sho...