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There is something
nurturing to the soul about a low-key fishing
expedition on the bay. I say low-key because I
expect that having too much in the way of
equipment, preparation, and technology would
diminish the connection with the creation that
pulses around you. But, a 19-foot boat, with
limited navigation equipment, and minimal fishing
tackle… that's connection.
Christians must
live a life that is ever mindful; mindful of the
creator and the limitless abundance of his
creation. Remove the attention to God, and we lose
the thankfulness that should literally pulse with
our blood, that should flow with each breath we
breathe. Our advanced world tends to insulate us
so much from the texture and foundation of
creation that it is easy to become unmindful of
the extravagance of God’s provision.
As I landed a just
barely "keeper" weakfish, I thought of the Native
American practice of praying to the creature or
tree that they were about to utilize for
permission to utilize it. That
would be bad theology for a Christian. But my
Celtic and Christian roots suggested that it was
absolutely appropriate to thank God for the life
of the beautiful fish he had presented me, to ask
his permission to keep the fish, and to give
thanks for being in the position to have leisure
and a place to live that affords me the
opportunity to fish rather easily.
I experienced even
more of a connectedness with the wildness of
creation with the undersized fish that I didn’t
keep. I gently held each released fish in the
water for a few moments before letting go and
watching it swim away. The sense of entering into
the wild creature’s world sent shivers up my
spine.
And then there was
the really humbling experience of finding my way
home. I have lived on the bay enough decades that
I can run from here to there with little thought
in good weather. This morning, a fog descended
stealthily; a real "where is the rest of the
world" fog. And I had not programmed my Global
Positioning System unit for that part of the bay
because I never traveled there in bad weather.
Suddenly, I had
joined the league of mariners from pre-electronic
days. I was not in much better shape than Jesus’
fisherman companions. I poked along at a speed
that would allow me to stop as soon as I saw
anything in my path. Every few moments I gave a
blast on the horn to warn others of my presence,
while I hoped that they would be doing the same.
The fog was so thick that the water was dripping
off my nose.
It struck me:
faith…not seen. (“Now faith is the assurance of
things hoped for, the conviction of things not
seen.” Heb.11:1) I could not see a thing beyond
the bow of the boat. My world consisted of me and
my boat, surrounded by gray fluff and dripping
moisture. But, I knew, I just knew that there was
a world out there, that my dock and my home, my
wife and my cat, all awaited me. And there were
things that I had never experienced that were out
there too. I couldn’t see, but I knew.
I made it home safely
and gave thanks to the Lord not just for a safe
return, but also the experience. His closeness
enveloped me as closely as the fog that dripped
off my nose. How can one not give thanks for a
loving creator who is so close and so generous? |
