Practicing, Not Perfect

Dear Reader: We continue with the fourth of six installments in this story about friendship, faith and flyfishing:

Cathedral

The place is little changed after more than four decades – despite the havoc of storms, floods and rafters. My sons fished this stream with me; perhaps my grandchildren will, too. With few exceptions, I have had little luck catching fish on this river over the years, and yet returned once or twice a year, even when there was precious little time for fishing. If the mark of insanity is doing the same thing over and over with the same result, but expecting a different one, then I am mad or a hopeless optimist. There were always possibilities, even unlikely ones, even if high water forecasts fishing failure. If this stretch were empty, perhaps fish were active around the bend. The search for a different outcome begins somehow, somewhere, sometime for most of us, and it began here for me.

An article in a flyfishing magazine introduced the idea of a stream-as-cathedral to us. It is on one’s knees that reverence is shown in a cathedral. One ought to also approach a small stream on the knees to prevent alerting wary trout with footsteps and shadow. Lehigh Gorge is the sanctuary of this natural cathedral, Lehigh Tannery the narthex.

Continue reading: https://erwatsonblog.com/when-fish-rise/

In this third of six installments, we continue a story of friendship, faith and flyfishing:

Apparitions

There are many ways into the gorge and Dave knew another hidden passage.

It was early May. The mountain laurel was getting ready to bloom. We were to hike down Stony Creek to its confluence with the Lehigh, a place Dave called Pumpkin Hollow. He said it with a hint of reverence or desire. And, oh, I should wear good boots.

He drove the old Volvo on roads without names, turning into a driveway with the innate sensibility of a GPS device decades ahead of its time. The driveway made a steep descent and turned left at the bottom. He parked off the drive, close to the hill. There was a little house in the bottom and no sign of movement, no barking dog. Dave opened the glove box, tore a scrap of paper from a larger piece and scratched a note about returning before nightfall. He placed the note on top of the dashboard and left the keys in the ignition.

Continue reading: https://erwatsonblog.com/when-fish-rise/

Dear Reader: The introduction to the second of six installments of the (kinda long) short story about friendship, faith and flyfishing follows…

Baptism

The Lehigh River crashed under the bridge, churning white froth and green menace with the late winter runoff. The road forked after crossing the bridge from the village. The upstream road was pitted, gravel and mud. Downstream the road was paved and the next logical turn. We went upstream in the direction of a presaged place that balanced the ability of Dave’s old Volvo coupe, nearly a classic at the time, to withstand the rough road and a fisherman’s reserve for a vigorous hike ahead.

We had only met the night before and somehow we were about to enter a wilderness together. Perhaps it was a mistake. The road narrowed and the woods seemed to grow darker. It was March and about 40 degrees.

Continue reading: https://erwatsonblog.com/when-fish-rise/

Dear Reader: The first installment of “When Fish Rise” follows. It is the story of a friendship and discovery of faith, something we may not have been looking for at first. We became friends in the place where we first learned to flyfish, a point of reference throughout our 40 years. He became a master and I am still not very good at it. It didn’t matter in the end. We found something greater.

When Fish Rise

We were a small group, mostly unknown to each other and brought together by shared interest in a philosophy class and a professor with the magnetism of a favorite uncle. He was standing waist-deep and fly casting in a small Poconos stream.

It was 1972 and we were freshmen in a secular university. We were reading a few of the ancient Greek philosophers and discussing their observations on logic, reason and truth: all three in harmony and intrinsically recognizable by most people. I was surprised to find illumination of my Catholic faith in this setting, without reference to Christianity in the teaching. Twelve years of Catholic schooling had failed to imprint the tradition of the Greeks and their influence on my faith, or perhaps I hadn’t been paying attention. This professor awakened something buried deeply, but at first all he seemed to want was nothing more than for us to break the horns of a moral dilemma – when either one of two choices is perceived as equally bad – by proving one or the other horn false using logic, reason and truth rather than the slogans of the day.

Continue reading: https://erwatsonblog.com/when-fish-rise/

Tis the season when we ought to contemplate that the Word became flesh and dwelled among us. But that happened a long time ago.

The awesome event of the Savior’s birth – a correction in the course of human history – is often lost in what we actually celebrate this time of year.

This Christmas season, however, we have a reminder close to home, close to us, that God is still active in human affairs.

A process that could lead to naming Maria Middleton a “Servant of God” is just underway in the Archdiocese of Philadelphia. It may ultimately lead to her becoming a recognized Saint in the Catholic Church.

This could take a while. Or not. Few saints are declared soon after death, as in the case of Pope St. John Paul II. Some saints wait centuries for recognition, although in eternity a thousand years are like a day.

The first step is the appointment of a postulator to review the facts of Maria’s virtuous life and her lasting impact on those who knew her or her story. If, after study, a recommendation is made to the Archbishop of Philadelphia to open her cause for sainthood – and he agrees – she would be named Servant of God. The Vatican would then begin a more detailed examination of Maria’s life and miracles attributed to her intercession that could lead to sainthood.

Tis the season we can learn from Maria and her unyielding trust in God’s plan for her and for us in this moment of history.

Come, Emmanuel.

Maria blows bubbles for children she met in Uganda.