Through the brokenness that has marked my family's redemptive journey, we have sought sanctuary in fishing. When we were fishing, we were calm (unless the boat motor wouldn't start and then my Dad was not so calm) and we were quiet, except for the crack of a diet coke can being opened or the grinding of a fishing reel with a fighting crappie on the other end. We all enjoyed it, even the dog, and we were together.
And now we are teaching the new generation how to cast the line, how to cut a worm in half between two fingernails, how to set the hook, and how to take hold of a fish from the head down, sliding the hand firmly in the direction of the scales. They will lie down to sleep and see bobbers behind their eyelids, shimmering in the sun. They will learn how to filet a fish and how many fish need to be caught for a family fish fry. They will learn how big a bass must be to keep it, and how sunburned one can get on a still lake in Michigan in the middle of July.
But most of all, they will learn that some things, like fishing line and families, are stronger than they look.