Fish Stories

When I was really young, maybe 5 or 6 years old, I went fishing with my dad and my brothers and some of my dad’s friends. This was a big deal because they were all heap big fisherman. I can still picture the area we were fishing in my head, but I don’t know where it was. My dad set a rod for me and put it in the water with all the others.

And I waited. That's what fishing is you know. It's the art of waiting.

I played in the trees. I played with bugs. Occasionally I’d go to take my line out of the water and my dad would tell me to leave it alone or I wouldn’t catch anything, pulling the line in and out. Eventually I grew tired of messing with it and went to play in the twilight. As the sun went down, a different set of bugs came out that kept my attention for a while. But when it was good and dark, the grown ups decided it was time to go. So I went to reel in my line, but it didn’t reel in very easy. It seemed to be stuck on something.

It was stuck on a pike fish. It was a big one.

Someone yelled, “Dave’s got a fish!” Dad helped me reel it in, and my parents have a picture somewhere of me and my sister and one of my brothers holding this fish up – if they find it I’ll post it – but that fish was about as tall as I was.

It was a great thing, but let me just say, it sets up some rather high expectations. My life in fishing has been all downhill from there. Nowadays, fish just laugh at me as I drag bait right across their faces.

But then there’s my daughter. She is the proverbial middle child and she is a born fisher-person. Whatever little talent or luck or whatever it was that was displayed that day in my childhood has blossomed in her, and she is not timid about it. She baits the hooks. She takes the fish on and off. She finds a way. She doesn’t let the gooey stuff bother her. And she will fish all day if we let her.

We have been going to a Jellystone campground for years now, and we always have to buy her bait and bring the rods so she can spend hour after hour fishing. She catches blue gill after blue gill, looks at them in a bucket for a few hours, then pours them back in the water for next time. So it was no surprise when she came back to the cabin this last time saying, “Dad! I caught a fish!” Cool. Another fish. I looked in the bucket.

It was a large mouth bass. 13 or 14 inches? Pretty long. She caught it all by herself. Completely. 8 years old. You’ve got to love it.

And we did. For dinner.





Peace to you.


© LW Publishing 2010

My Father Before Me

My Dad is 83 years old. It’s weird to think of him as an old man, but that’s what he has become. Still, he has a youthful way about him, even though he has a disease called “Lewy Body Disorder” which is slowly stealing his mind and body away. But, overall, he’s doing pretty good. In his prayers he recently began thanking God for letting him live a good long life. I’m with him on that one. I hope for the same.

I wrote a song for my dad a while back. I thought, since it’s Father’s Day tomorrow, I’d share the words here. In honor of my Dad, Luther Virgil McWhorter, who everyone calls “Bert” for some reason...

MY FATHER BEFORE ME
©1998 DJM MUSIC

As I make my way through another day
I say something or do something that reminds me
I am more my father’s son than I ever thought I would be

And as the years go by, when I look in the mirror
I see my father looking right back at me
I am more my father’s son that I ever thought I could be

But it’s more than a grin or the outline of a smile
It’s the shape my heart takes as I’m trying to find the answers
It’s the longing within me as I’m looking to the skies
It’s the Hand of Heaven shaping that makes me what I am

Like my father before me
Like my father before me

I may never know him like I think I should
There’s a distance there that makes it quite a mystery
How I am more my father’s son than I ever though I could be

I may never know him like I wish I could
But if I learn to know myself maybe I can see
How I am more my father’s son than I ever thought I would be

Cause it’s more than the sound of my voice when I am speaking
It’s the shape my heart takes when I look out on the water
It’s the longing within me as I’m looking to the skies
It’s the hope of Heaven waiting that makes me what I am

Like my father before me
Like my father before me




Peace to you.





© LW Publishing 2010

A Father's Torture

One of my daughters cut her finger the other day. She was using the apple cutter without permission and she took a little chunk out of one of her thumbs. It’s a little chunk, but she has a very little thumb. So it was hurting pretty bad. As she cried there was a look of helplessness on her face. She covered her mouth with her hand, crying, “It hurts! It hurrrrts!” And so we stayed calm in order to calm her. We took care of her and helped her get through it. We compressed it and finally got it to stop bleeding. It wasn’t stitch worthy, but it was close.

Even with something this small, it absolutely breaks my heart. I HATE seeing my children in pain. Of course I do. Any good parent does. It upsets me physically and emotionally to see them hurting. But you keep yourself calm and do everything you can to help them through it when it happens.

One of my other kids, a few years ago, ended up with a big cut on her forehead. It happened at an activity she was at. And it was WAY stitch worthy. It hurt you to look at it. So we drove her up to the after hours clinic to get it taken care of. And it still makes me cringe to think about it. It was so painful for her. (I was just trying to describe what they had to do and it’s making me upset, so I deleted it. You can just imagine for yourself.) But there wasn’t much we could do. I held her hand. I struggled with the anger I felt simply because my child was hurt. But we had to try and keep her calm while the doctor did his thing.

Sometimes, when this kind of thing is going on, my kids start saying, “Please Daddy! Please Daddy!” And what they are asking, with those two words, is for me to make the pain stop. Make it go away. Make things back how they were before the hurt started. And I would if I could, but I can’t.

And it’s like torture...

Which makes me think about God the Father looking at God the Son as the Son hung on the cross. I can’t help thinking about this. Watching my children in pain always takes me to this. And in that situation, if the Father stopped the pain, it would have stopped the forgiveness and redemption. The Father did not offer comfort because the pain and suffering was needed for our sakes. So they endured it. And, I think, it was a torture.

Not just for the Son, but for the Father.






Hebrews 12:2-3
Peace to you.


© LW Publishing 2010

Heroes

David Bowie sang a song I liked a long time ago. He shouted at the top of his lungs, “We can be heroes!”

We can be heroes?

Webster says a hero is a person that shows great courage. Webster also says that courage is having the mental or moral strength to keep forging ahead through danger, fear or difficulty. So, I realize that, according to these definitions, I am surrounded by heroes. You may be one of them.

My dad is one of them. Yes. He’s my hero. But it goes beyond that. He’s just heroic. Moral strength is his forte. When he was young, the younger kids in his family were starting to go hungry. They were poor farmers living in the south. The depression was hitting them hard. He quit school to go to work so they could buy a milk cow. His own father asked him to do this.

His 19 year old daughter died in the late sixties. He survived and moved forward with a kind heart. My parents lost their child, and that often spells divorce for married couples, but neither of them walked away.

Dad was injured at work and was told at one point he’d probably never walk again. After umpteen surgeries and trips to hospitals in other states, he walked in the front door of our house with bizarre electrodes sticking out of his body. One time I had to turn it down because he had accidentally turned the thing too high and was practically frying his spine on the inside of his body. Standing on the tips of his toes, he yelled to me, “Turn it down! Turn it down!” I did and he laughed. He’s in his eighties now, he has to use a cane sometimes, but he’s still walking, which isn’t always easy because Dad now has what’s called “Lewy Body Disorder.” You get two major problems for the price of one. A combination of Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s Disease. But he hasn’t complained about it. He takes his meds and does the best he can.

Growing up with comic books, it was always clear to me that a hero was a person who had some special ability. A hero was strong when others were weak. A hero saved people. But life is not a comic book. And I am amazed by the resiliency and perseverance in people like my dad. Some have made it through childhood horrors that are almost unspeakable. Some have made it through condemnation and abuse of all kinds. Some are moving forward through disease and heartache that they did not earn for themselves. Some have endured tremendous loss and pain and neglect, but they take another step, and another, and the sun rises again. They open the door and head into the world to see what the day has.

People like this have shown me that we really can be heroes.

If I could, I’d make an awesome, flowing, super-hero cape for each and every one of them. I’d write them a theme song. But I guess they’ll just have to make do with my admiration.






Peace to you.


© LW Publishing 2010

Rich

There is this story, this thing that happened, and it’s just about the only story my dad liked to tell about me as the years went by. Because of that, I’m going to tell it here. His face would light up when he was telling it. The light was the humorous leftovers of embarrassment. Something he could laugh about NOW that wasn’t so funny when it happened.

It was simple really. And somehow indicative of my life as a whole.

My family and I were at a restaurant. Unusually, it was a sit down joint. Big Boy? I dunno. I think we were on vacation. I was maybe 4? We ate. We had a nice time. Dad paid the bill and waited at the door for us to catch up. When we did catch up, as we were walking out the door, I showed my dad my amazing luck.

Me: Hey dad, look, I’m rich.
Dad: What?
Me: I’m rich.

I had a handful of money.

Dad: Where did you get all that money?
Me: Off the tables. People left it there. I’m rich!

I had cleared probably 5 or 6 tables on my way to the door. I was amazed at how all of those dumb people had forgotten to take their money when they left the restaurant. Somehow no one noticed me doing this. Which happened to me a lot.

Mom: Oh my goodness! (For her this was like swearing.)
Dad: That’s not for you!!!

Dad grabbed the money out of my clutching hands and put it on a table near the door. He furtively ran back out of the restaurant in embarrassment. My siblings looked at me with concern, thinking I would go to jail for what I’d done. But the police had bigger fish to fry. So, in lieu of incarceration, mom and dad just explained to me what a “tip” was. And ... my dad loved this story. It always made him laugh. Like clockwork.


I was robbed.




Peace to you.


© LW Publishing 2010