Of Fishers and Men

As I retire to bed after a long day of endless fun, I find myself exhausted. Exhausted with heartfelt laughter and etching smiles. I may not have laughed hard or for very long. But my smiles were genuine. 

As my body falls heavier and heavier  into the suffocating Tempur-pedic bed, pain increases as I recognize the sharp pain, digging into my lower back, as a small toy car. I laugh again. And begin to write. 

My purpose? Men and fishers. Today I spent a solid 23 minutes fishing with a little boy and little girl. These children just so happen to be my siblings with the patience of a cat being held back from yarn. 

It was my brother's first cast of the day--and almost of his life considering the rarity of fishing in a desert. The line, 15 feet across the water, lay perfectly still, minus the bobbing to and fro from wandering ducks. "This is the most boringist thing ever." He stated defeatedly after 6.5 minutes. "Why don't the fish come? I have everything I need." 

Gently, and as patiently as possible, we'd help them cast out their lines to obtain the desirable prize of a smelly fish. With each swish of the poll, frustration increased. "Why do people even like doing this?" My sister exclaimed. "It's crazy." 

I chuckled and said, "It's more than getting the fish, it's the experience that drives you here." 

Mid-chuckle, I paused. That was it. That was my answer. To life's wonder of "why, if I'm doing everything I'm supposed to, am I not feeling successful?" 

How often does our Father help us, patiently, kindly, and consistently? How immeasurable is His mercy and love? How often do we find ourselves lost in a world where the only thing we have to hold onto is a pole with a thin line, waiting for the bobber to fully submerge in the water? 

We feel hopeless and impatient. But it's the journey that blesses us and morphs us into true fishermen. Experts in the art of obtaining that smelly fish. And it doesn't always end up being the biggest, prettiest one! Often we fail to realize the fish has been biting the whole time. We may even feel like this journey of life is the "boringist thing ever." 

Thank God for his Son; for the Atonement of Jesus Christ; which allows us to visualize the end from the beginning but also allows us to bare life's "boringist" times. And for that matter, times of sheer disappoint. 

We have been given a gift--the gift of baring all things with enduring patience and hope. 

And for me? That's what hope is. Holding on to a fishing pole, knowing that eventually the fish will follow through with a big ole bite--never letting go. If not, faith makes us cast that line back every time. 

And God always follow through. 

Amber Run

Moments. We all have them. It's in those moments where we are a pile on the ground; mentally stuck in the fetal position. We find ourselves in this awkward state for periods of time. This time may be lengthy or short. But we consistently find ourselves there. Alone. Afraid.

Then we hear something: encouraging words, gentle promptings, motivating melodies, or even the hum of everyday life. And we wake up--even if it takes a few times.

These somethings vary. Tonight it was the gentle music of Amber Run and a good conversation with a friend that nudged me enough. Enough to coax the "little ghost" of insecurity and doubt far enough away from holding me down.

And I began to rise. Not of being but of mind.

Moments. We all have them. It's in these moments, we become something more. We do the seemingly unbearable. And conquer the awkward fetal position.

"I found love where it wasn't supposed to be."

Future Insane Asylum Attendee, right here.

Staring into the great abyss of nothingness. I most often find myself doing this at work. There are days when customers don't permit me to enter into my dream-like state; being the holidays, I'm in this despair quite regularly. But again, there are those days where I can visually fly away into the corners of my mind. What do I think about, you may ask? Frankly, this is the conundrum of the century. As I look over the bridge of my nose, I dose off. My vision blurs and in this moment, I think of absolutely nothing. Such a feat is normally incomprehensible for a person of my gender. Any one can attempt to get my attention, but to no avail. It is almost an awkward  silence until a fellow associate rudely interrupts my bliss with a customer anxiously awaiting my acute abilities to extract and place contacts from one phone to the next. How rude. Clearly my non-existent thought process is more important than your ongoing communication with the "friends" you have whose names are only identified by a series of numbers. Who's to say they're real anyway? 

So I reluctantly exhume numbers once lost and yet again, allow myself to go to that distant place of peace and freedom. Although, maybe isn't either of these. Maybe it's more of an escape from the tedium and stress; maybe it's a stifling of problems like dust under a rug. I don't know what it is; but this much I do know, it is out of necessity. If I didn't have my moments of drool-worthy stares, I would most likely be admitted to an insane asylum. 

Isn't that ironic?