I wrote this entry before I left but wasn't able to post it.

Fly fishing for me has been a rough experience. A lot of anger has surfaced in the midst of it and a lot of my insecurities have been drawn out, like ink blot chromatography of the heart. My desire in the midst of all this frustration, hurt, anger and wounds had been to simply stay with it and stay present to it all and see if maybe God wanted to teach me something. So, a few weekends ago I joined up with a few other guys to go fishing in Elevenmile Canyon. I knew it was a risk for me emotionally, but I knew I had to take that risk.

The day began late, since it was a Sunday and we went after the early service at church. Consequently we missed the massive Trico hatch that was supposed to be happening. That meant I would have to fish nymphs below the surface, which I hate doing, because the fish were pretty much done feeding off the top of the water for the day.

As the day progressed, I was having a pretty rough time. I kept catching my rig on the moss and alge that was plentiful, stripped one of my Trico flies and lost two others to the dark deep of the river. I continued fishing the same hole and began to reflect on how the day had unfolded thus far and I realized that I have a deep and abiding reluctance to change things, even if they’re not working out that well for me. I’m the guy who orders the same drink at Starbucks every single time... for the last 5 years (a tall extra-hot white mocha for those who are curious). I didn’t want to switch spots on the river, I didn’t want to switch flies, I didn’t want to add weight or a strike indicator. I spent some time journaling about this phenomenon, asking myself why. Maybe it’s because I am afraid that to switch is the ultimate admission of failure. Maybe it’s because I want to be a savior who can salvage even the most dire of situations from the depths. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen so many people change everything about their lives in search of success and happiness and end up in an even worse spot. Maybe I think that if I’m not satisfied with where I’m at I can’t possibly be satisfied elsewhere, since the problem is me and my heart and that’s nigh impossible to escape. All these thoughts are going through my head concerning fishing at first, but the implications began to echo through every crevasse and cavern of my broken life.

It wasn’t until later that I realized how often I had forced myself to remain in many places where I was miserable because it seemed the sensible, responsible, wise, character building thing to do. But years later, there I was, with a fair amount of jaded cynicism and regret. Much more than any other 24-year old I know. My fear to risk change has left me a safe, stable, predictable, lifeless man. I know that may seem too harsh, many might not see me that way. But I would wager those who know me best know I have a deep caution about me that is birthed out of fear.

And so I ditched my fishing hole and hiked around trying at least to enjoy the rugged beauty that surrounded me. I crossed over to river left and trekked about, which I am pretty sure you’re not supposed to do, but I was too busy enjoying the idea of my esoteric excursion to care. I found an inviting rock overhang with a soft bed of pine needles underneath where I took a nap, exhausted from the emotional turmoil of the day.

I awoke who knows how much later, less frustrated but more ambivalent, fishing half-heartedly, living half-heartedly, existing half-heartedly. In so many ways it seems that is what I have come to.
I continued my journey upstream, passing one of the guys I came up with, and I found a great spot where the river deepened, the current slowed and boasted an eddy on the opposite bank and there was enough of a clearing to back-cast without catching my fly in the brush. However, a few casts in, I noticed my line was laying out in a way it wasn’t supposed to and when I inspected it I found that the fly had been torn off somewhere behind me, never to be found again. I was done.

I threw my rod on the ground and sat streamside. I was furious. It seemed like I was doomed to be, at best, disengaged and at worst, filled with rage. Happiness was out of the question. I fumed for a while about everything, my crappy experience fishing, my loneliness, how I needed men in my life, especially older men to help guide me and interpret life with me but it seemed like Training Ground wasn’t meeting that need as much as it was exacerbating it until in became unbearable, bringing men into my life just long enough for me to see how desperately I need them.

I sat journaling and flipped back to the notes I had taken during one of our first teaching sessions for fly fishing. The guides had asked us what our expectations were when we picked up that fly rod for the first time. I had written how I anticipated disappointment and let down and how I foresaw having to force myself to enjoy something that wasn’t really enjoyable. Sitting there at Elevenmile Canyon, it seemed my expectations were fully met.

As I wallowed in my despair and frustration, I wanted to give up again. I recalled my experience at Estes Park, of wanting to give up and persevering and catching a fish, but even in the midst of that I wrote in my journal, “God came through for me once, but he won’t do it again. He’s not that good (i.e. benevolent).”

I continued to sit with no intention of rising again, cursing the way things always seemed to unfold against me. How my happiness and success didn’t seem to rank very high on God’s list of priorities. In a clearer moment I had to admit to myself that there was so much more going on in my heart, much more than just fishing. I prayed that whether or not I caught any fish, that God would help me to stay present to this situation. That whether or not I succeeded, I would not run from this moment.

I sat fuming still, and suddenly I noticed that the fish were feeding on the top again. There was only an hour or two of day light left and they had come up again to feed. I thought to myself that continuing to fish would be the best way to remain present and engaged in this moment, so I tied on one of my last dry flies I had bought for the trip, a Peacock Feather Caddis if you want to know, and I began to fish. Each cast felt like a risk. Each swish of my line felt like casting a piece of my heart out on the river and each rejection felt like a rejection of my heart. Even though I was fishing, I still couldn’t bear to put my whole heart out there with each cast. It felt too risky to really hope, to really try. I know it sounds foolish, but it felt too vulnerable to really fish whole-heartedly.

A few casts later, my line laid out terribly, but I recalled the guides words about just letting it lie once it was out, since there was no sense in bringing it back in to cast again. No sooner had I said that to myself than I saw a huge fish mouth come up and gulp down my fly. I couldn’t believe it, literally. I cried out audibly, “No Way!!!” Within a few minutes I had reeled in what was, up until that moment, the biggest fish I had ever caught, a beautiful nine-inch rainbow trout. It was gorgeous and I rubbed it down and kissed it.

Completely floored, I released the fish of my life and went back to fishing. I felt the difference between fishing half-heartedly and really having hope, to really believe it was possible to catch something. It was a completely different feeling, a totally different approach. Suddenly God was good again and although I never expected every cast to yield a fish or every attempt to be a “success,” I could believe that ultimately things would work out in a way that was good for me.

And then it happened, a terrible cast to a spot I wasn’t aiming and boom, fish on! Another stunning rainbow trout, even bigger than the first. I simply cannot describe the places that took me emotionally. I even want to castigate myself for allowing such external circumstances to so thrill me. But they did, and they do, and I think it’s right that they do. I can’t explain it, and I don’t really want to.

I kissed that fish too, released it and sat back down to smoke a cigar, but this time I sat to soak up the goodness of God in that moment which seemed so palpable in that moment. I realized that a desire to be fathered had lain dormant in me for years, overlain by feelings of abandonment and failure and loneliness and harsh words spoken to me by me and by others. I also realized that being at Training Ground with all those older men guiding me had awakened that desire but had not fully met it. The pieces of the puzzle came together as I realized that God was in that, because He was fathering me. God was the Dad I wanted and needed. Not ever to diminish the role my earthly dad has played and will play, but he was never meant to fully fill that role. God was and is the only one.



Since that day, I have gone fishing three times. One day was even more epic than what I just shared, and two were terrible and taunting. One day yielded even bigger fish and another was the day the biggest fish got away. What am I to do with such experiences, how do I hold onto the goodness that was so evident one day and the next it seemed a myth? Honestly, I have no idea... I really don’t. What do I do with all the failures that yet await me in this life? I don’t really know. I am assured I won’t meet them with grace, not for a while yet.

There was a moment, near the end of the day of “the one that got away” when Matt Storey turned to me and said, “Dude, let’s pray.” So we prayed. Prayed for fish, for God’s will, for God to teach us quickly what He would through failure, for God to allow us to enjoy the beauty of the day. Then we took a deep breath, found a good spot, and cast our lines once more.

All my life I have watched people make mistakes, pursue foolish choices and waste life on that which is not worthy of their time or energy. And all my life I have vowed never to make those kinds of mistakes, whether it be dating or marrying a person everyone knows isn’t the right one, giving myself over to drugs or alcohol, losing myself in a career with dollar signs but no time for family, etc. As many vows as can be made, I have made, until I was literally stumbling under the magnitude of the expectations I placed upon myself. Every failure to live up to my own standards was a monumental disaster in my eyes and in the eyes of others (so I felt). Every time I fell short was more evidence in the case against the kind of man I was, as though the goodness of my heart was on trial. After years of this, the burden becomes unbearable and finally I vowed never to fail, never to take a risk that could lead to a less than perfect outcome. See my standard was perfection and I was falling short of it.

I’m finding, at least in my own life and the lives of those around me, that every time a person promises themselves or others they will never become such and such or so and so, it is as if they immediately become magnetically drawn to that very thing. I hear people say things like, “I’ll never be like my dad,” “I won’t think anymore lustful thoughts,” “I will never let anybody down like I’ve been let down.” The paradox, it would seem, is that the very act of vowing is to seal my fate entirely and condemn myself to become that which I have loathed so intensely.

And so I turned to Jesus and asked Him to be my risk management guru. I thought if I could get really good at discerning His will and His calling I would never have to deal with the consequences of such mistakes I had seen other people make. I wanted to know and follow God’s will not because I loved Him deeply and knew He had the best in store for me, but rather so I wouldn’t have to make mistakes, wouldn’t have to risk, wouldn’t have to allow uncertainty into my life. I wanted to follow God for safety, so at least if everything fell apart it was God’s fault and not mine, using God as a scapegoat and a risk management tool. It was sometimes as though “seeking counsel” became more of an excuse to let others write the script of my life so I didn’t have to take responsibility for the consequences of my actions or decisions. It’s a sad place to come to when you’re a man who hasn’t made any huge mistakes and yet your life is full of this inarticulate regret. Regret that is there every waking moment, suffocating the vitality out of you. Like the Older Brother, having never left home, he has also never experienced redemptive love.

I have been in that place for too long. I honestly don’t know what it will look like to let risk be a part of my life, but I suspect it will be a messy process of saying yes to some long time desires that have sat huddled in the corner of my heart for too many years. Even today, the last day of the program, I was speaking with Xan about my plans for when I returned home. I thought a job that would provide me with some money and time to explore my passions and gain more insight into my calling would be a great step. Xan heard my plan and basically said, “It’s not risky enough. Go big or go home.” (My paraphrase, sorry Xan). Even just the challenge to dream a little bigger for what the next year of my life could look like brought great fear and anxiety. My reaction was incredibly strong for such a simple, theoretical discussion. I am so afraid to even dream of what my life could look like, to dream of where God might call me. So much welled up in me, I cannot ignore that without killing my heart. Whether I pursue the specific option we discussed or God uses it to lead me into something else entirely, I need to pursue it far enough to understand why I reacted so strongly. Something is there, and I need to pick up the trail and follow it. I’m tired of being that man, who at 24 doesn’t really know what he’s passionate about. What brings me to tears consistently? What gets my riled up every time? Consistency and discipline are not bad, but I have prized them and become jaded in the process. I want to live! I want to be alive! And I grow more and more convinced that risk and failure are a part of that life.

Here’s to life abundantly...