Bless This Fish

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 it, 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?