My grandfather was a fisherman. He spent nearly every day of his thirty-year retirement standing on the banks of local creeks, reservoirs and lakes awaiting the thrill of the catch. Other anglers—rod, reel, bobber, weight and bait in hand—would stare at him in a kind of stupor as he pulled crappies and blue gill, one after the other, out of the water on his tiny 1/16 jig. The water, in fact, was his teacher, inviting not only the exercise of his intuition in the discernment of a good fishing hole, but also the virtue of patience. Despite his reputation for being an old curmudgeon, Pops, as we called him, gradually became a contemplative, surrendering to the sprawling blue expanse, accepting the vast unknown beneath the surface, yet hopeful that some moment of communion with a fish would arise. This art of fishing inspired others to see the sacred in the recreational and deeper meaning in the sport. Though small in stature, he was a giant and a legend who continues to be missed. Let’s go fishing this week and, like Pops, allow ourselves to be caught by the truth, beauty and goodness of it all.
James Frank Bernard, pray for us! 🎣
I wanted to know who the people were in the picture!!!
Which one was Pops?
Our Dad used to take us fishing off a barge in the Pacific and it was wonderful.
He also gave us a quarter each to buy candy from the slot machine
A real celebration!
He’s the little guy on the right, striped shirt, look at that smile, look at those fish!!
It sounds like that fisherman was a great guy! Thank you!
The best.