For Fathers...Get Hooked!
I wobbled around in the jon-boat dodging lacy webs while Dad clamped on the trolling motor. For a little extra you could rent it with the boat. He shoved off and we hummed across the smooth water toward a cove of trees.
“Now, Son, you gotta be real quiet to not scare off the fish, and watch the cork, if it goes under, you got one.”
He showed me how to swing the long cane pole to get my line just where I needed it. I sat and and like the typical five year old, watched everything but my cork: a turtle sliding off a log, a spider, repairing the web we callously tore earlier.
“Son, would you hold this a minute?” and Dad handed me his pole. I set mine to the side and grabbed his, but it felt strange, there was tugging and pulling and then it doubled over.
“You got a fish! Pull it up!”
I yanked straight up and a Bream launched from the water, flying over the boat. As soon as he splashed down I yanked again and up he sailed back to the side he started. Instinctually, I stood to get control and the fish swung back and forth like a pendulum, slapping against the aluminum sides a couple of times before landing in the boat bottom.
That day that fish wasn’t the only one hooked.
Dad and I found our thing, fishing, and we’d deepen our relationship around it for nearly twenty years. Most relationships blossom around some kind of activity; Angie and I love to go get coffee and enjoy it on our deck, some people ride motorcycles, and others ski. But on that day, my relationship with Dad deepened around pole, hook, and worm.
One trip become two, and two became four, and eventually we stopped renting and bought our own boat. We’ve fished the Mississippi River, dozens of lakes in three different states, and even the depths of the Gulf of Mexico. There’s no telling how many fish we’ve caught, everything from bream (Dad’s favorite), to catfish, to shark, but what has meant most was the time, the talk.
On the water Dad and I discussed everything from politics to religion and what it takes to be a man, life lessons, passed on from father to son.
Yet, I feel, I’ve not done as good a job with my own kids.
Our boys were born when I attended seminary, when I dreamed of being a famous pastor, a gifted theologian. I worked full time as a youth minister and filled my other hours with study. I tried to not impact our family time, but we rarely did those things that I did with my Daddy. It wasn’t the fault of church or seminary, it was my ambition. To some, it was a good pursuit, the highest of callings, but sometimes I wonder if I sacrificed too much for religious notoriety.
I can’t explain the change, but it happened a couple of years ago. I received a tent for Christmas, and a ton of camping equipment. The boys and I would head off to some woods and feast on the outdoors, and every once in a while, we’d take our fishing poles. It was a periodic trip, a taste of the life I lived with my father.
And now we’re hooked.
So far we’ve gone fishing every week this summer, just like my childhood. The older two are even venturing out on their own nearly every night. We’re talking more, more than just “how’s your grades?” and “you did what?!” Little Ireland has even gotten in on the fun, sometimes catching twice as many as the rest of us. Fishing has become our thing and I’m holding on to every moment, loving every conversation, and I’ve learned most off all that it’s never too late to leave ambitions in the dust and find time with the kids. So, if you’re like me and realize that your relationship with your children can be summed up by drop-offs, pickups, and questions of their performance, may I suggest something? Grab a couple of cane poles, hooks, and some worms and find a pond somewhere. You never know what may happen, you could get hooked, I know I have.
“Now, Son, you gotta be real quiet to not scare off the fish, and watch the cork, if it goes under, you got one.”
He showed me how to swing the long cane pole to get my line just where I needed it. I sat and and like the typical five year old, watched everything but my cork: a turtle sliding off a log, a spider, repairing the web we callously tore earlier.
“Son, would you hold this a minute?” and Dad handed me his pole. I set mine to the side and grabbed his, but it felt strange, there was tugging and pulling and then it doubled over.
“You got a fish! Pull it up!”
I yanked straight up and a Bream launched from the water, flying over the boat. As soon as he splashed down I yanked again and up he sailed back to the side he started. Instinctually, I stood to get control and the fish swung back and forth like a pendulum, slapping against the aluminum sides a couple of times before landing in the boat bottom.
That day that fish wasn’t the only one hooked.
Dad and I found our thing, fishing, and we’d deepen our relationship around it for nearly twenty years. Most relationships blossom around some kind of activity; Angie and I love to go get coffee and enjoy it on our deck, some people ride motorcycles, and others ski. But on that day, my relationship with Dad deepened around pole, hook, and worm.
One trip become two, and two became four, and eventually we stopped renting and bought our own boat. We’ve fished the Mississippi River, dozens of lakes in three different states, and even the depths of the Gulf of Mexico. There’s no telling how many fish we’ve caught, everything from bream (Dad’s favorite), to catfish, to shark, but what has meant most was the time, the talk.
On the water Dad and I discussed everything from politics to religion and what it takes to be a man, life lessons, passed on from father to son.
Yet, I feel, I’ve not done as good a job with my own kids.
Our boys were born when I attended seminary, when I dreamed of being a famous pastor, a gifted theologian. I worked full time as a youth minister and filled my other hours with study. I tried to not impact our family time, but we rarely did those things that I did with my Daddy. It wasn’t the fault of church or seminary, it was my ambition. To some, it was a good pursuit, the highest of callings, but sometimes I wonder if I sacrificed too much for religious notoriety.
I can’t explain the change, but it happened a couple of years ago. I received a tent for Christmas, and a ton of camping equipment. The boys and I would head off to some woods and feast on the outdoors, and every once in a while, we’d take our fishing poles. It was a periodic trip, a taste of the life I lived with my father.
And now we’re hooked.
So far we’ve gone fishing every week this summer, just like my childhood. The older two are even venturing out on their own nearly every night. We’re talking more, more than just “how’s your grades?” and “you did what?!” Little Ireland has even gotten in on the fun, sometimes catching twice as many as the rest of us. Fishing has become our thing and I’m holding on to every moment, loving every conversation, and I’ve learned most off all that it’s never too late to leave ambitions in the dust and find time with the kids. So, if you’re like me and realize that your relationship with your children can be summed up by drop-offs, pickups, and questions of their performance, may I suggest something? Grab a couple of cane poles, hooks, and some worms and find a pond somewhere. You never know what may happen, you could get hooked, I know I have.
No comments have been added yet.
