It's 6:00 a.m. on a Friday morning and I'm wanting in a bad way to stand hip deep in the chilly current of a fast moving Massachusetts river. Normally at this hour I'd be flying down the interstate, off to my exciting job--but not today. Instead, I'm recovering quite speedily from a hernia surgery. The procedure, as the doctor calls it, took place on Monday. I was wheeled into the operating room at 11:15; out by 12:15. Apparently, the knife didn't kill me because I found myself laying comfortably on the living room couch around 2:30 that same afternoon. The Lord is good: thus far I have suffered no major complications and my bride has been the paragon of patience. I'm certainly not complaining. I'm simply wishing I could go fishing.
My visit to the hospital was long overdue. Twenty years ago when I tried to re-enlist for military service, an Air Force physician did things to me only an MD could do and not die. During the course of relentless prodding and probing he discovered a tear in my lower left abdomen which required repair before Uncle Sam would sign me up. At the time I couldn't afford heath insurance so the operation was reluctantly played off. Fortunately, I never had another problem with my guts until one dark afternoon last April when the hand of providence reached out and grabbed me real hard. Even then, I was able to procrastinate the inevitable right through the various hatches plus pheasant hunting. After all, there are priorities in life and two of the highest are flyrodding for trout and shotgunning for birds. I figured I'd be fairly safe to wait until the Jack Frost season before sacrificing five weeks for the sake of healing. Eight hundred and forty hours of doing nothing but praying, sleeping, reading, writing, studying, fly tying and pipe smoking seemed like some pretty rough business though. Yet, I knew I could handle those ordeals rather nicely with the aid of Amy, my dear wife. On December 4th the anesthesiologist hooked me up to the happy juice, but on God's grace I've been riding high ever since. Nevertheless, I'm still wishing to go fishing.
It's snowing outside. For several months now I've been hoping to drift nymphs down the Swift River on a cold day in December. Imagine yourself standing in the middle of a stream full of fish, surrounded by woodland silence as fat snowflakes fall softly to the ground, covering the trees, the rocks, the whole earth with a big wet blanket of white. Up on the bank the squirrels scurry in a hurry, trying to remember where they cached their hoard of nuts. A bright red cardinal greets you with a cheery song as it lights upon the bare branch above your head. And the lone goose of winter honks mournfully upon the realization that flying south with the rest of the geese might have been the better idea. The guides on your cane are crusted with ice, but you don't care. The splendor of nature's adornment is too alluring to allow intrusion by the trivial. Suddenly you feel a tap, a tug, and you're surprised by the hit. The rainbow rips your line almost to the backing before you finally gain control. Ten minutes elapse, punctuated by the full-bodied jumps and angry protestations of a highly torqued trout. Eventually five pounds of finned fury are brought to the net . . . and then released with a blessing.
I'm home alone. I could get there and back before anybody ever realized I had gone. What's a six-inch incision and thirteen staples got to do with anything? But I know better. Sovereign mercy has laid me low for a purpose far more significant than mere medical necessity. The most direct route to the soul is through the flesh. Sometimes you're leveled physically in order to be raised spiritually. Perhaps that's the case here. Speak, Lord, for your servant heareth.
For this one fleeting moment, however, the babbling of the brook is making an awful lot of sense to me and, folks, I just can't help wishing I was fishing.
John 14:6
Jesus said to him, "I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me."
�copyright 2001, Perry S. Fuller
