Watching how the mind runs, I’ve come to think each of us carries a set of touchstones by which we pretend to know right from wrong, true from false, wise from foolish. Most are handed to us: the religion of our family, loyalty to the land in which we’re born. Others we stumble upon, like a beachcomber discovering a whole and beautiful shell on a beach littered with broken fragments. We read or hear so much in a lifetime, yet certain phrases or ideas stick in memory as touchstones of truth while all the others drift away. Why they stick, I can’t say. But they can grab hold of us with a sense of obvious revelation, or tease us with a profound, tantalizing mystery we can’t let go of.

I’m not sure where I first heard or read, “the child is father to the man,” but it never left me, and now and then I tried to plumb its depths. Many times I tried to align the face of my father with my own as a boy and a man, twisting them around like a Rubik’s Cube. But I never quite solved the puzzle until Sagan came along. In him I found a solution, maybe not the one intended by whoever first said those words, but a perfect solution for me. In Sagan I found the purity of spirit that gave birth to my full self.

So our work was done: mine with him, his with me. I knew it last Friday watching him on the football field. I could let him go to Canada with his mother. After all, didn’t the social worker warn me that first day not to get too attached, to remember the goal was restoring him to his mother. As I ran the beach that Tuesday morning I knew personally what Shakespeare meant by the sweet sorrow of parting. Fortunately, the morning’s climbing sun and a cool September breeze off the Atlantic gave sweetness the edge over sorrow. I wanted to feel happy for Sagan, and for Becky.

It was the first day of fall, a day of change, even if changing seasons move slowly in Florida. My run was long and leisurely, full of thoughts and memories. When I arrived back at the house I felt no urgency to get on with my life. The waves were rolling in, smooth and glassy, cresting at two to three feet over the inner sand bar. Before I knew it I had stripped off my shoes and walked into the ocean. I had not been in the ocean lately except to baptize, and as I left land behind a familiar peace crept up my legs. I have to believe it’s no coincidence that we use water for baptism. Yes, the sacrament itself is a powerful symbol. But water holds natural power. Under its surface we enter a world which in minutes can bring death, but in baptism by water we escape the fear of death forever. Driving off our fear -- that’s what this Spirit stuff is all about; I don’t think I’m wrong on that.

The warm water rose to my thighs, splashing up to my waist. I dove into the froth, kicking and pulling hard with my arms until I reached the place where the waves gain full height and tumble forward in a dash to shore. I dove under a crashing wave, swimming with underwater strokes until I rose just beyond the break. Water was building up before me and I lunged back toward shore in sync with the climbing wave, churning my arms in a frantic freestyle that brought me to a perfect pace just as the wave broke. I was swept toward the beach riding the front face, my upper body clear, one arm out, one arm back in what a college friend dubbed the “Superman style.“ I rode thirty or forty feet, feeling like I was flying, then used my arms for landing gear as the water ran out over the sand. I popped to my feet and ran back out, thrusting through the shallow surf and swimming when it was deep enough. Again I surfaced in chest deep water and caught another ride toward shore. Some days you can stand forever waiting for a wave good enough to ride, but on this day every single one looked like a good option. I rode in, and hustled back out, then rode in again. In and out, over and over until I was nearly spent.

As I washed in and stood once more, I told myself the next one was the last. But I spotted Carolyn beyond the dunes on our deck waving me in and holding up the house phone. By the time I crossed the walkover she had gone back in the house and brought out a towel. I dried my head and took the phone. “It’s Ms. Collins,” Carolyn said. “Krissy Collins from that morning show on TV.”

“Ms. Collins?”

“Is that you Dietrich?” she said. “Was that your wife who answered?”

“Yes. Carolyn. It’s nice to hear from you Ms. Collins. You doing OK?”

“Great,” she said. “Better than I could have hoped a week ago. Thanks to you.”

“I’m so glad, and glad you called,” I said. “I’d be more pleased if you called just to chat with a friend and say how well you’re doing, but I’m guessing there’s something else.”

“You guessed right. How did you know?”

“Something in your voice. And it seems like the wrong time of day for a casual call from a busy celebrity like you.”

“Celebrity can come quickly. You must have found that out.”

I laughed. “Maybe so. At least here on the beach, in my little home town …”

“Oh, not just there Dietrich, which is why I called. I have something very exciting to tell you. You made quite a splash with your performance here.”

“I wouldn’t call it a performance.”

“I’m sorry. That’s just how we talk. But the point is, you’ve started a lot of people buzzing since last Thursday. You’re big news. In fact I was in a meeting about you yesterday afternoon.”

I was still laughing. “Maybe I should have my own television show.”

“Actually,” she said, “that was one of the ideas. My publicist thinks you could be the hottest thing since Joel Osteen.”

“Based on those few minutes on your show? Let’s not get carried away.”

“People in this business sink or swim based on their ability to spot something special in a performer … sorry, there’s that word again … but the point is they think you have it. There’s charisma, then there’s charisma. You have the exceptional kind. I not only saw it; I felt it. I’m sure that’s what caused the deputy to fall under your spell.”

“It wasn’t a spell Ms. Collins.”

“Forgive me, I just don’t have the right words to use with you. The language of the church, like my father uses, doesn’t feel right and neither does the way we talk in my business. … And please, call me Krissy.”

“That’s alright Krissy. Listen, even if I wanted to be Joel Osteen, which I don’t, he has a big fancy church while all I have is a deck overlooking a public beach. It wouldn’t work. And if you even tried to bring a production crew down there … well, just let me tell you, the preachers in this town are already up in arms. They’d have the county down our throats in one of your New York minutes.”

“We already spoke with the people at your Chamber of Commerce and they think it could be done -- just one time. It would mean a lot of free publicity for your town. We promised them a free spot, a promo to reach the tourists, something classy sort of like the universities do during college football games.”

Silent seconds passed. My gut was saying “no.”

“Dietrich? You still there?”

“Yes. I was thinking about why I should say no. I don’t want to take something fine, something that came up naturally like the sun at dawn, something truly spiritual, and turn it into a commercial circus. I mean, we have a simple little … show. It’s very genuine. All the energy comes from the people.”

“The energy comes from you.”

“No. It comes from outside me and multiplies because it finds a home in lots of hungry hearts gathered in one place. That’s what I don’t think you understand. The media -- the whole culture for that matter -- is so celebrity crazy that it always wants to create -- excuse the word -- cults around individuals. I thought you, meaning Krissy Collins not the industry, understood that now.”

“On the other hand,” she said, “you can’t dismiss the role of an inspirational leader. Would we ever have read of the five thousand being fed if it wasn’t for Jesus? No, we wouldn‘t. Maybe the spiritual power does come from outside you, but it just happens to show up when you’re around.”

She was quick, but was she right? Was I in denial? Was God handing me a task I was dodging under the guise of modesty? Had I been chosen and given a special gift God wanted me to run with, run hard as far as it would take me, run until I was used up?

“Let me think about it.” I said. “I’m not sure your crew could be as inconspicuous as I’d want and still get the production values you’d want.”

“We’d use one-man steady cams and a lot of tight shots. Natural light would be no problem.”

“One show you say? I’m trying to imagine your angle.”

“Well, the truth is we saw that as a kickoff, kind of a roots experience. We have a syndicated tour laid out. Ten or twelve cities. Stadiums and arenas.”

“Stadiums! I can’t fill stadiums.”

“We think with the right advance work you can. And of course my name will help.”

“Your name?”