Fisher of Men by Chelsea Temple

Fisher of Men

“Rod, lures, net, check. We can dig up worms when we get there,” I say. Neal looks less than pleased. His dark hair falls over his eyes, but I’ve already told him that he should think about getting a haircut, so I don’t say it again. He’s wearing jeans and a hoodie, though I warned him it would be hot. I ignore the look he gives me and move to the truck.

            “It’s already seven, we’re running late.”

The truck is old, but it runs like new. Still, when we hit a pothole, Neal jumps like the car has lost a tire.

            “Sorry,” he mumbles, and it is the first word that he’s said to me all day. The weather is pleasant if a little warm. I drive us to my favorite spot, the spot I used to go with his mother when she was younger. It’s the boy’s first time, and I want to make it special.

            I’m not very good at talking to children. My wife and I only had his mother, and we moved away from the rest of our families when we got married. For most of my life, I’ve been a part of a group of three. A trio. I didn’t think I would get that back when my wife died and his mother started a life of her own. But here we are, three again.

            When we get out of the truck, I spot a few of the other regulars. Old Morris down by the water’s edge is there with Fred Morelock as always. Fred is knee-deep in the water. Morris is readjusting his bobber, clamping it in place.

            “We’re down here,” I call over my shoulder to where Neal lags behind. He’s sweating in all that black, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. The boy will be drowned before we break out the sandwiches. We set up close to the bridge. It’s not my usual fishing spot, but it will give the boy some shade.

            The water is calm. The levels of the river have risen in the last week or so due to some rain, but I know that there are fish beneath the surface. My father always said that the biggest fish were near the water’s edge rather than in the middle.

            “You may find some whoppers there, but all the big uns’ are near the shore.”

The weeds are tall around the shore. Neal and I walk down a small hill to reach our spot under the bridge. I stumble slightly. My knees have been failing me more and more lately.

            I don’t fall, but Neal still looks concerned.

“Are you all right?”

            “Yes, just a stumble. I’ll be all right now.”

The doctor has been saying that I need to hire some more help around the house for years, but it’s always felt wrong having strangers in my space. It’s the one benefit that has come out of this tragedy. That my girl has come home so that we can help each other.

            Neal reaches for his back pocket, but stops short when he realizes that he doesn’t have his phone. He wouldn’t have had signal even if I had allowed him to bring it. I wanted to spend time with my grandson, not my grandson and several thousand people on the internet. The only way we could connect was to get rid of the connection. Isn’t that something?

            We get settled in our chairs, and prop our poles up. I bait Neal’s rod. He’s as squeamish as his mother. He nods gratefully when I don’t comment on it. I just bait his hook and move on.

            “So,” I start. “How’s school?”

He and his mother had to move several states to live with me. He just started a new school, though the year is almost over. It can’t be easy on him, but he just says, “It’s fine.”

            Fine. How can a one-syllable word pack so much meaning?

I nod, and decide not to push. If the boy doesn’t want to talk about school, then we won’t talk about school. We’ve got more important things to discuss anyway.

            He looks so much like his father. Eyes stern and focused on the clear glass water. Sharp chin and dark hair. He hardly resembles his mother in the physical aspect, but he is so much like her in spirit that I know without asking that he is in pain. Pain so deep that he can’t take it.

            We sit in silence for a bit. I’m in no hurry. Fishing is a sport of patience, and I am a master fisher.

            “I think…” he says, and his voice is small. “I think my dad would have liked this place.” I offer the boy a closed-lipped smile and nod. “I think he would have to. You’ll have to let him know about it.”      

            He looks at me as if I have put the hook in my own mouth instead of the fishes’. “When you pray,” I continue. “Just because your dad is gone, that doesn’t mean that he can’t hear you anymore. You can still talk to him anytime you want. You just have to pray.”

            “I don’t know how to start.”

It’s a simple confession. I know my daughter was raised in a praying household, and I know that she, the boy, and his father often went to church, but I don’t know if the boy has had anything this serious to call to the Lord for before. But I have.

            “I can help you.”

Together, we get on our knees, right there by the waterway, and we pray to the living God for peace for his mother, some strength in my poor knees, and we pray that Neal’s father is still watching over him, that he is proud of him, and that he knows that he loves him.

            We tell his father and the father about our fishing trip. Neal speaks of his new school and the new friend that he has made even this late in the year. We pray for comfort with our losses, and I send a prayer up for my wife who I never thought that I could live without.

            Just as we say amen, Neal gets a tug on his line. He reels in his fish becoming a true fisherman, but it is my duty as the man in his life to ensure that he not only becomes a great fisherman but that he, one day, becomes a true fisher of men.

Chelsea Temple is an English teacher from East Tennessee. Her favorite part of having a relationship with the Lord is that she always has someone to see her classic "side eye" look. She believes that the Lord appreciates her humor while she tries to appreciate all of his. She attends Lyons Park Missionary Baptist Church in Church Hill, Tennessee.