Fishing with Dad

I ended up not going to see my dad for Father’s Day. I think there was a little miscommunication. I thought he was taking my mom to his sister’s for a wedding shower, when in reality she went with a different sister, and Dad ended up being home alone. So much for Daughter of the Year Award. Actually I was never even in the running; I’m awful about cards and gifts and such.

So, when I talked to Dad on Father’s Day, I told him that I wanted to come up to his farm early the next morning and go fishing with him for awhile. Honestly, he didn’t seem too thrilled. . . I was a little taken aback. I mean, really. Me, Dad, fishing. . . wouldn’t anybody be thrilled?

He kind of paused and said he didn’t think it would be a good day, he doubted that the fish would bite because of the heat or thunder or something that I wasn’t listening to because I was still recovering from the blow of him NOT saying “Hey, hey , fishing with you would be the best Father’s Day gift any dad in the world could have.”

Anyway, I kind of blew him off, telling him that the fish would bite, that I would come early, that I would leave Grace at home so there would be absolutely no distractions. I mean, Come on, Dad, it’ll be fun.

Later that same day, I called my mom to make sure Dad wasn’t sick or had something else planned that he didn’t want to share – remember, the miscommunication piece at the beginning? My dad is very good at suggesting very strongly (aka telling) me what to do but is equally bad at being honest with what’s going on with him. Due to that, my mom has served the last 50 + years being my dad’s interpreter to the rest of the world.

So Mom says he’s fine. Come on. Of course, he wants you to come. She’s so good at healing my bruised ego.

Monday morning finds me eating an early breakfast with Mom and Dad. Then Dad and I go out to dig for worms, which proves to be more difficult than I had hoped for and only served to reinforce Dad’s thoughts that fishing would most certainly be a bust.

Within 5 minutes of tossing our lines in the water, Dad was pulling out a nice-sized blue gill. I matched him within the next 5 minutes. We ended up catching a turtle, a bass, and several blue gills in fairly short order. The best excitement was when the turtle ended up eating some of our fish being held captive on our stringer. We ended up throwing the still living fish back in the water because of our outrage at what this turtle had done.

Oh, and we also talked about Popaw Collins and his fishing experiences, and how my dad, when I was little, would get a fish on his line and then hand me the pole to reel it in.

 He also said “Jerk now. You’re going to lose it” a couple of times during the morning. He said that my hook needed to be in the water in order to catch one. (OK, so it takes me awhile to bait and cast.)  We talked about my kids, my mom, how lucky we were. The two of us stood there with our feet planted firmly on the bank, with nothing on our to-do list but just be.

When we walked back to the truck, I told Dad that I fished by the moon so I knew the fish would bite. (Dad doesn’t share; I simply lie.) He told me he was surprised, and he thought I would be disappointed if I got up there and the fish weren’t biting.

Silly man. He thought I was there to fish.

Ordinary Days

It has been awhile since I’ve posted anything on this blog and I’m not exactly sure what’s up with that.   Nothing terrible has happened; in fact, lots of good things have filled my days and caused me to sleep well at night.

I’m satisfied and content with my job, my friends, my children and my family.

 But eating lunch with friends or going to a birthday party with food served doesn’t seem to be blog-worthy anymore.

Keeping my feet on the floor and feeling the good and the bad are part of who I am, not a choice that I make each day (or not so long ago, a choice I made every hour.)  

You know, I’m just walking the dog, mowing the grass, hanging out with friends, going to church, hugging my kids, opening my mind and heart and allowing them to love without fear.

 Just ordinary stuff. Not much to write about, I suppose.

I’ve started to re-think that though since reading a note from our Music Minister in my church’s Order of Worship. Apparently, after the celebration of Pentecost Sunday, the church enters into the Ordinary Season of the liturgical calendar. This season lasts until Advent and officially ends the high church season.

On a practical level, that means the banners in the sanctuary won’t be changed for awhile. The bird, aka Holy Spirit, won’t be swooping around in the sanctuary. The Grim Reaper won’t be extinguishing any candles with his hands and the choir is stuck with green stoles for awhile.  If you look closely, even the Christ candle is gone.

The liturgical seasons that Kathy (Music Minister) wrote about caused me to think of the season of my own life.  I like to think of it as early autumn, since most of the women in my family have lived well into their 90s. (You know, I’m hopeful for a few Indian Summer days left in me to raise just a little bit of hell.)

But I’m coming to think that maybe a comparison to the liturgical calendar’s seasons would be more appropriate than the traditional four seasons..

If I take that route, I’m, without a doubt, in the Ordinary Season, and with any luck, I’ve left the High Church Season behind; honestly, I’ve never cared much for poinsettias and lilies.

The last few years of my life have had their share of loneliness and reflection the Lenten Season often brings.

 I’ve even had a couple of my own Good Fridays, when I was left feeling that even God had forsaken me.

I like to think of my time spent in Residential Treatment as my time of Advent, preparing for something spectacular, the discovery of a life worth living.

My own personal Christmas and Epiphany occurred as those shepherds and magi, looking all the world like family and friends, rejoiced with me in this life-changing realization.

My Easter and Pentecost took the shape of sheer joy in finally knowing that I was not alone, that it was actually possible for me to be so much more than what I had become. . . .finally, there was hope, unending, undying hope. And, after a deep breath and a relaxing of my shoulders, I’ve entered into this very beautiful time of the Ordinary.

(Technically, I don’t even fall under the anorexia category anymore. Apparently, now I’m just an ordinary crazy. )

Trust me, though, there is nothing more extraordinary than the ordinary. The church following the teachings of Jesus, without his constant physical presence (remember, no Christ candle.) Doing the everyday work that we are called to do without the pomp and circumstance that the high church season often brings. While technically it is the Ordinary Season, I’m starting to think that it is possibly the most holy season of all.

In my own Ordinary Season, I’m beginning to realize that this is the reason for all of the other seasons. For the last several years, the Ordinary Season has been my goal. So now, just like the church, I will live and work and love with all of my heart, knowing that being ordinary is being exactly what God has created me to be.