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A Letter From A Father
Dear Chuck,
Thanks so much for the fabulous time of fishing and
fellowship. Once again our time with you was invaluable
and we made beautiful memories that Mack and I will
share for the rest of our lives. I just cannot thank you
enough for all that you do.
Mack thinks the world of you, not just because of your
prowess with a fly rod, but also because you are a kind
and patient encourager who relates to him as an
enthusiastic friend or older brother. More than your
fly-fishing skill, it is the love you show that opens
the door for your words about what it means to be a man.
As a father, I appreciate the seeds that you have
planted in my sonās life.
It is hard for me to put into words why these times
are so important and what the medium of fly-fishing has
to do with growing boys and spiritual training. I can
say that rivers have much to teach us. When I gaze out
on a clear, cold, trout-bearing river, it speaks to me
in many ways. The river spreads a visual feast before
me, and invites me in. The river does not seek to impose
its will on me, but if I am to catch a fish, I must
gently enter the ancient flow and rhythm placed there by
the Creator. I cannot thrash the water, or impose my own
rhythm and form on the river, and expect to be rewarded
with a fine trout. Fly-fishing, in its purest form, is
more about joining into the peaceful beauty of Godās
creation, and less about being beautiful myself. If I am
to enjoy the greater reward of a brilliantly colored
trout, so perfectly designed for its world, I must
continuously conform to the nature of Godās creation and
bear up under the cold, and the tangled lines, and the
lost flies, and patiently continue to believe and hope
and endure, until such time as the riverās grace covers
me.
Even when I settle down, and settle in, and float a
fly that, for a brief moment, exists in perfect harmony
with sky, water, insects and trout, I will be rewarded
on Creationās schedule, not my own. But when the reward
comes, I become a wild adventurer, and life takes on the
form of art. An exciting story unfolds before my eyes:
my firm yet gentle lift on the line, the troutās pull
and fire unleashed, a splashing, flash of variegated
color flying under and above the water. In that moment,
I am hooked and heaven bound. I can nudge, I can pull, I
can struggle, but I cannot demand. The line that
connects us is too fragile. If I am to land this fish, I
must completely let go, while standing my ground. I must
hold on, but not too tight. There is a sense of urgency,
but I must be patient. I must wrestle for my blessing,
as Jacob wrestled with God.
Fly-fishing reminds me to look at what God is doing
around me, and join in. Fly-fishing reminds me that, if
I wish to receive Godās greater reward, I must be
conformed to His image of a man, and not my own, and
that the greatest reward of all is not to be beautiful
myself, but to join the beautiful story that God is
creating in the midst of this fallen world. Moreover,
fly-fishing in the presence of godly men reminds me of
the virtue of patience and the power of faith, hope, and
love. In fly-fishing, as in life, the greatest of these
is love. Love is patient and long-suffering. Love is not
rude, or proud. Love does not seek its own way. Love
bears up under all difficult things, and continues to
believe, and hope and endure, until the end.
Dearest Chuck, you have been our guide, little Mackās
and mine, into the mysterious realm of sky, water,
insects and trout. But you have taught us something
about what it means to love as well. As life goes on,
and we travel lifeās rivers large and small, we will
carry a part of you within us. We will, of course,
remember fun and laughter and fine fishing. But more
than that, we will remember the humble, patient, loving
soul of one of Godās servants, and that will change us
forever.
Your Friend and Brother in Christ,
Mack
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