River of Life

Last evening I went fishing for the first time this year. Normally by the end of May I would have gone a number of times, so this is highly unusual, though not inconsistent with my spiritual drought. For me there is a strong connection between fishing and spirituality. The act of fishing, the setting, the water itself, and the physical touching of these rarely-seen creatures all contribute to an immensely healing and nourishing experience. I have missed fishing more than I realized.

I am writing from our cabin in Ashe County, NC, so the easiest place to wet a line from here is in the South Fork of the New River, which is reputed to be the second oldest river on Earth after the Nile. The drought of the last two years has been hard on the river. At one point last summer it had dwindled to a fraction of its normal flow, and the water was so shallow that some kind of river-weed grew and almost choked whole stretches. It was too low to float, too low to fish, and kind of sad to behold.

But this spring the rains have been bountiful, and for the first time in two years all of western NC is out of drought. It's been six weeks since we've been up here, and it is incredible the feeling of life everywhere -- it's hard to adequately describe how green everything is. But the effect of the spring rains on the river is most impressive. All but the biggest rocks are covered, and water runs from bank to bank with an energy and vibrancy I'd forgotten. The water is not as clear as it was during the drought, but clear enough to be pretty.

As I parked my car along Cox Road, I could feel the moist cool air and hear the low murmur of the river as I looked for a place to begin. The place I selected was not the one I had in mind when I left the cabin, but it seemed inviting. Why not try a few casts there? I tossed a gold Panther Martin spinner out in the current and reeled it back slowly. On the second cast, I hooked up with a small but feisty redeye bass -- they have the body of a bream and the head of a smallmouth bass, with blood-red eyes.

I thanked God for this fish. It has been my practice for some time now to offer thanks for the first fish I catch, because that first fish means that today I will not be skunked. Each fish is a gift, and even the little ones are fun. This one struck like a ton of bricks, and it wasn't until I had him almost all the way in that I realized he was only maybe eight inches long.

I can still remember the first time it occurred to me to give thanks in that special moment after the first catch. I was standing in the middle of Helton Creek on a chilly morning, having just caught a nice trout. Remembering that St. Peter was a fisherman, I also recalled how the Lord after His resurrection had directed Peter and the other disciples (who had been skunked the previous night) to cast their net over the right side of the boat, and how they caught 153 large fish. Right in the middle of the creek I said a prayer of thanks, and have been doing it ever since. Interestingly I can count on one hand the number of times since then that I've been skunked.

Fishing reconnects me to both the earth and to God in a mysterious way. Part of it is that all my thoughts and cares seem to travel down the line into the water, where they dissipate harmlessly. My mind is amazingly blank when I fish -- somehow the low-intensity thought process of fishing expands to fill my brain pan. Once my mind is no longer preoccupied with worry and care, my senses are filled by visual beauty, gentle sounds, earthy smells and the tactile sense of the rod in my hand and the earth under my feet. The rod becomes a living thing, or like a divining rod telling me where the fish are. After a hookup, the rod is electric with the connection between me and the fish and the unique vibrations of a fish on the line.

Moving on from my first spot, I got another strong strike and a solid hookup. Playing the fish in the current, I could tell this one was bigger. What kind of fish would it be? That's part of the mystery, especially in the river. Would it be another redeye, or maybe a smallmouth, or even a nice trout? Though "officially" there are no trout in the South Fork, you do catch them occasionally -- either refugees from a trout-water tributary or perhaps one that just lives in a deep dark pool near a chilly spring in the bottom of the river.

Alas, this one was a hornyhead. The first time I caught a hornyhead it was alarming, because these chubs can get to be a pound or so, and they look like some kind of radioactive mutant with their spiky bump on the forehead. They will also talk to you sometimes, like catfish will, with a deep throaty er-er-er sound. This was a fine specimen, as hornyheads go, and he put up a noble fight. I threw him back, as I did with all the fish I caught this day.

Normally I don't count how many fish I catch. In fact I intentionally try to forget. that way it gives you lots of honest leeway when conveying to friends and family how you did that day. You can say, "quite a few" or "ten or twelve" or "it must have been about twenty, but I wasn't counting", and you'll be covered. Because you really don't know. But last night I caught five -- two redeye bass, two bream, and Mr. Hornyhead.

By this time the shadows stretched all the way across the river, and the evening quiet had descended upon this beautiful valley like a blessing. Where the sun still shone it looked clean and warm and golden, the sky was clear and blue. Dinner on the deck with Pat beckoned, along with a nice bottle of wine, so I clambered up the bank and walked toward my car. My thanks to God had returned as a blessing.

Spiritual Dryness

I see that it has been three weeks exactly since my last post, so I apologize to any of you who may have checked in on Emmaus Road during that time. My lack of writing seems to be an accurate reflection of my spiritual state of mind and heart during that time, as it seems like a bit of a spiritual drought.

Looking back I can see now how completely I emptied my tank in Honduras and the week or so afterward. I even described it to Jesse as "mission fatigue". The last straw was my frustrated attempt to establish dates for another trip to Honduras in 2010. I will just say that Habitat has not made it easy, and I'll leave it at that. And so by the end of April my spiritual resources had run dry, and I was at a loss as to how to replenish them.

It was not for lack of trying that the drought continued. I prayed and celebrated the Eucharist as usual, and even went on retreat with the Men's Group the last weekend of April. The retreat was a great experience and a good soaking rain, to stay with the meteorological metaphor. But it did not break the drought.

As I was leaving the retreat, I had a brief conversation with Fr. Louie, wherein I shared my experiences and frustrations with Habitat. I did not and still do not know whether God is calling me to lead another mission there, or whether these frustrations meant that it was time to move on. He sized me up in an instant, as he has an uncanny way of doing, and told me to spend time praying with no agenda -- to listen.

And so I have, yet for all my attempts at listening I still had no answers. It was not as if I received nothing -- even in a drought it rains sometimes, just not enough. I was feeling dead inside, not depressed or angry or even frustrated, just kind of dead. I could sometimes make a connection to God but I could not maintain it or achieve it reliably.

At the same time I became acutely aware of the rapid passage of time. I've actually had some very good experiences in that period. All three sons and Hunter were here for dinner on Mother's Day (Emily was with her family), which is a rare and blessed event, yet it was like an instant. Work has been good, and I have enjoyed the spring weather, planting a garden and working in the yard. Yet each day seemed like just a heartbeat.

I am not one to pine over such things or about growing older. I know that this sense of the rapid progression of time is probably part of getting older, and I accept that. But as I lay awake waiting for sleep, I have longed in a new way for the day when I finally see Christ's face, with the feeling that the faster time slides by the sooner that day will come.

Don't get me wrong, this is not some morose death wish kind of feeling. It is nothing but positive and uplifting, a new and more sure footing for my faith that one day I will be united with Christ. And that is new, and really kind of remarkable in the context of the "drought".

Saints and spiritual writers like St. Francis de Sales and Henri Nouwen have spoken about spiritual "dryness" and "aridity", and it's interesting that they choose the same metaphor. Mother Theresa went for more than fifty years without feeling the presence of God, even in the Eucharist, and still held tightly to her faith (now that's a drought!). Some have called this "the dark night of the soul", though that would be a somewhat melodramatic and overwrought description for my situation. Still I have been in a new and strange place these three weeks.

Last night though I had an Emmaus Moment. On my way to Mass, I guess I was thinking about my state of soul, and for some reason I put a song on my iPod in the car that I just bought -- "He Leadeth Me" performed by Sara Watkins (formerly of Nickel Creek). I'm not sure why I chose this song or even bought it in the first place, except that she has written and performed other spiritual songs I really liked (see The Hand Song from the first Nickel Creek CD). The song is performed in a very simple and spare style on guitar and violin:

1. He leadeth me:  O blessed thought! 
 O words with heavenly comfort fraught! 
 Whate'er I do, where'er I be,
 still 'tis God's hand that leadeth me. 

Refrain:
 He leadeth me, he leadeth me,
 by his own hand he leadeth me;
 his faithful follower I would be,
 for by his hand he leadeth me.

2. Sometimes mid scenes of deepest gloom,
 sometimes where Eden's bowers bloom,
 by waters still, o'er troubled sea,
 still 'tis his hand that leadeth me. 
 (Refrain)

3. Lord, I would place my hand in thine,
 nor ever murmur nor repine;
 content, whatever lot I see,
 since 'tis my God that leadeth me. 
 (Refrain)

4. And when my task on earth is done,
 when by thy grace the victory's won,
 e'en death's cold wave I will not flee,
 since God through Jordan leadeth me. 
 (Refrain)

And that's when it hit me that indeed He leadeth me, even when I feel I am in drought. When she sang "by His own hand he leadeth me" I felt the drought ending. What an image. So once again I am reminded of how Cleopas and the other disciple must have felt as Jesus broke bread and blessed it, ending their spiritual drought.