Of Rock Fish and Fishing Rods

When I was a little girl, one of my favorite things to do with my dad was fishing. It helped that we frequently went to my favorite library in the same trip (I’m a born bookworm – slash – mermaid, so a library that sits on the banks of a river? No better place on earth.)

The area of town that we lived in was called Eau Gallie – “Rocky Water.” Our river’s edge was piled with jagged rocks that I loved to use as steppingstones, precariously balancing and occasionally “accidentally” winding up in the water.

One memorable day, Dad and I, along with my mom and brother, went out along the riverside to fish. I was maybe six or seven years old; young enough that I needed help baiting my hook but old enough to be left holding the fishing pole independently.

There I sat, only half expecting anything to take the bait. My joy was in sitting at the water’s edge, listening to the swoosh of the water up into the rock, watching for pelicans and dolphin, being with family. Catching anything was a bonus.

Suddenly, the line went taut and the fishing pole jumped in my inattentive hands. Grasping it excitedly, I began to reel it in. I’d caught something! Catfish? Rainbow Trout?

Nope. Rock fish.

I didn’t know such a thing existed. I knew the shining sparkle of a mullet jumping. I was familiar with the long whiskers and premium fry-ability of the catfish. This writhing thing at the end of my line, dorsal fin looking like a razor blade, teeth bared, and looking severely annoyed with the situation was a sight for which I was completely unprepared. I was a little frightened. Then became more-so when my parents quickly told me NOT TO TOUCH IT.
What in the world had I reeled in??

Dad gently took the line out of my hands. Skillfully, he grasped the underbelly of the rock fish, knowing full well that if he grabbed it slightly amiss, he’d be dealing with severe lacerations or a nasty bite. Calmly talking me through his procedure, not only the what’s but the why’s (my dad knows his daughter!), he pried the hook out of the treacherous thing’s mouth and set it free back in the rocky waters from which I had plucked it so unceremoniously.  

Looking back, I see how my Dad not only gave me freedom to hold the fishing rod and try my hand, but also stood ready to recognize when the situation became too risky for me to handle alone and stepped in with his far superior knowledge and skill.

Our Heavenly Father is like that. He teaches us lessons. Gives us room to practice. Steps back a little bit to let us try it out and see if we can stand in it yet. But He never walks away. Never turns His attention to something else so that He misses it when we get in over our heads. Never watches an angry, dangerous influence wind up in our lives and nonchalantly watches us get sliced up by it.

He calls out a warning. Steps in to help us handle it. Takes it out of our hands and holds the risk in His own if we will let him. All the while, He calmly teaches us as we watch Him handle the situation so that we come away with more than just a frightening story; we come away with added wisdom.
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Next time you’re out there fishing with your Heavenly Father, remember: you may be holding the fishing rod, but you’re also holding His gaze.