A Sporting Wife, Who Can Find?
. . .be agreeable, be sympathetic, be loving, be compassionate, be humble.
1 Peter 3:8 The Message
Carl waited until after the wedding to inform me he has a fervor for fishing. “That’s great, dear. Every man needs a passion,” I said.
“Have you thought about taking up the sport with me?”
Cringing, an old memory splashed to the surface. It was a family outing in Yosemite, and my cousin’s first catch of the day was my neck. A crowd of adults tried to extract the barb from a screaming ten-year old. My most vivid vacation memory was a trip to the hospital through winding mountain roads where I lost my lunch.
“No, thanks. I’m not into fishing.”
The gleam of hope drifted from his eyes. Single-again for many years, Carl had finally found a mid-life soul-mate, a woman who loved to banter over politics and travel back roads on mountain bikes. A woman willing to brave adventure and try new things.
Or so she claimed before the wedding.
We’d both been down the road of rejection, and God had given us a second chance at love. In my first marriage, I molded myself to my spouse’s expectations, tried to keep up with his demands for perfection. Maybe then he’d stop stepping out on me. He left me anyway, and I struggled to find myself amidst the ruins. After twelve years on my own, with God’s help, I’d discovered the real me beneath the veneer. The idea of learning to fish to please a man caused some jaw clenching in me.
Never again.
But that Christmas I unwrapped my last gift; a collapsible rod and waist pack with various pockets for all the tackle. “Just in case.”
Then one day I came home from the post office to find him practicing his cast. “It’s all in the wrist,” I learned. “Here, you try it. There’s nothing like the thrill of fishing.”
The following spring he invited me to spend the day fishing with him.
“Okay, I’ll try it, but I’ll bring a book in case I get bored.”
Fat chance when Carl keeps saying, “We’ve got to keep moving. They aren’t biting in this spot.” After trekking a mile upstream, I resorted to my best whine. Is this what our marriage had succumbed to?
Whining didn’t seem to faze him.
In early summer, he drove home with a friend’s borrowed boat in tow. Parked in our driveway was twelve feet of dents with a grease-caked motor manufactured when Kennedy was in the White House.
He gave it a friendly bang. “These old things were built to last. Oh, by the way, I’ve rented a mountain cabin for the weekend. Since hiking through the wilderness isn’t your idea of fun, I thought we’d try some lake fishing.”
This is what I get for being impressed with a man’s tenacity.
Three days later I found myself floating out on a gorgeous canyon lake, practically deserted except for a graceful bald eagle perched atop a pine tree. I marveled at the scenery while Carl primed the pump and pulled the frayed cord to start the engine.
“Not sure what’s wrong,” he said, taking apart the cover to inquire. “We’ve got plenty of gas.”
Choke. Spit. Sputter. The motor refused to cooperate. Had God heard my prayers?
I contained my growing glee. “That’s too bad, honey.” A good book on a sunny deck was my idea of the perfect getaway weekend, and it looked like a strong possibility. Maybe he’d give up and be content with a subscription to Field and Stream.
Just as we were rowing the crippled boat to shore, a Department of Fish and Game truck backed down the boat launch, and a man in uniform hopped out. “Hey, don’t leave yet! I’m about to dump 4,000 fish in this lake.”
Suddenly, my heart gave a stir. All those fish coming straight toward me? I grabbed my rod and some bait.
“Hold it, Jan. This isn’t sporting,” Carl warned.
“Huh? What do you mean?”
“These are fresh out of the hatchery. They haven’t had a chance to survive in raw nature.”
“Did you not bring me out here so I could feel the unequaled thrill of a bite on my line?”
I had him there.
With a smiling shrug, Carl slid the oars back in their slots. I sat there waiting, watching the huge dark swell of trout circling our boat in the shallow water, cautiously making their trek to the deep. My pulse throbbed as the perfect cast landed in their midst, luring my very first prey to the orange glittery bait.
And then it happened—one took the bait. Just as Carl had shown me, I jerked to set the line, and then it began, the battle of wills between me and my catch. I followed my husband’s coaching; let the fish tire out, keep my line taut so I could net him. And four more of his tank mates in the next few minutes.
Then something sparked in me. A thrill I’ve never known, and I’ve not been the same since.
To Carl’s surprise, God changed my heart that day on the lake. I am now a convert to this water-tug-of-war. We bought that old boat from our friend—Carl was right, lake fishing is tailor made for me.
I can’t say my lesson was to submit to your husband enough to fish with him. That’s not what God taught me. Instead, I finally experienced the kind of love that makes a marriage great; one that doesn’t insist on its own way, one that considers what’s right for the other, and makes adjustments. A love with no conditions attached.
Carl would love me whether I fished or not. But, he persisted in finding a way for me to share in his passion, and it paid off.
For both of us.
Story appears in But, Lord I was Happy Shallow by Marita Littauer, Kregel Publishers