Chicken Soup for the Soul: Christian Kids
BY: Keith Long
One day last summer, my five-year-old son Parker and I decided to go fishing. We picked the perfect day for it. The wind howled at forty miles per hour out of the south, the red dirt blew past, rubbing our skin raw for the eager UV rays, and clouds of mosquitoes parked on our lee side.
Parker had fished before, but hadn't yet developed the same passion for it I had. We'd go to a farm pond, hook on a dab of earthworm, throw Parker's line into the water, and in about three seconds the bobber would go under and Parker would tree-top a three-inch bluegill.
Parker considered all that a great and exciting adventure. Then he was off, throwing rocks in the water, looking for frogs, picking flowers for his mom and generally ignoring this whole process of fishing.
So on this particular day, I resolved to teach Parker a lesson. I wasn't taking him to just any farm pond, but a fisherman's haven -- a place by the name of Dewayne's Pond. What's more, we were leaving the earthworms behind. I brought along a minnow bucket and on the way out of town we stopped at the bait shop and ordered two dozen shiners.
Bass bait.
And that meant bass fishing.
Yes, I had decided that Parker needed to graduate to real fishing. I knew there were enough bass in Dewayne's Pond to keep us stepping lively, and I figured Parker might even catch a couple in between me hauling several out on my plastic-worm rig.
I figured wrong. I managed to catch a couple in between all Parker hauled out. And of the twenty or so bass Parker caught that day, two weighed more than two pounds.
"Creel-worthy," I said and put them both on the stringer.
"Wow!" Parker said, "I bet Mom won't believe I caught both of those and you didn't catch any."
"She might," I ventured. "Now hush and try to catch another one."
Parker tried, but he couldn't keep his mind off the two monsters already on the stringer. I could tell, though, that something was beginning to bother him.
"Dad," he said, prodding one of the bass with the end of his fishing pole. "We're taking these home to show Mom, right?"
"Certainly," I said. Parker concentrated on his bobber for a moment.
"How are they going to stay alive?" he asked.
I anticipated his question and congratulated myself for having a ready answer.
"Well," I began, trying to be as gentle as possible, "they aren't. I mean, we're going to clean them when we get home so we can eat them, and they'll have to die then, right?"
"I guess so," Parker replied. He remained silent while he caught a couple more small ones that we threw back.
Parker had fished before, but hadn't yet developed the same passion for it I had. We'd go to a farm pond, hook on a dab of earthworm, throw Parker's line into the water, and in about three seconds the bobber would go under and Parker would tree-top a three-inch bluegill.
Parker considered all that a great and exciting adventure. Then he was off, throwing rocks in the water, looking for frogs, picking flowers for his mom and generally ignoring this whole process of fishing.
So on this particular day, I resolved to teach Parker a lesson. I wasn't taking him to just any farm pond, but a fisherman's haven -- a place by the name of Dewayne's Pond. What's more, we were leaving the earthworms behind. I brought along a minnow bucket and on the way out of town we stopped at the bait shop and ordered two dozen shiners.
Bass bait.
And that meant bass fishing.
Yes, I had decided that Parker needed to graduate to real fishing. I knew there were enough bass in Dewayne's Pond to keep us stepping lively, and I figured Parker might even catch a couple in between me hauling several out on my plastic-worm rig.
I figured wrong. I managed to catch a couple in between all Parker hauled out. And of the twenty or so bass Parker caught that day, two weighed more than two pounds.
"Creel-worthy," I said and put them both on the stringer.
"Wow!" Parker said, "I bet Mom won't believe I caught both of those and you didn't catch any."
"She might," I ventured. "Now hush and try to catch another one."
Parker tried, but he couldn't keep his mind off the two monsters already on the stringer. I could tell, though, that something was beginning to bother him.
"Dad," he said, prodding one of the bass with the end of his fishing pole. "We're taking these home to show Mom, right?"
"Certainly," I said. Parker concentrated on his bobber for a moment.
"How are they going to stay alive?" he asked.
I anticipated his question and congratulated myself for having a ready answer.
"Well," I began, trying to be as gentle as possible, "they aren't. I mean, we're going to clean them when we get home so we can eat them, and they'll have to die then, right?"
"I guess so," Parker replied. He remained silent while he caught a couple more small ones that we threw back.
"Dad," Parker finally said in a small voice, "we'll see these fish again in heaven, won't we?"
This question blindsided me. I didn't know what to say. It wasn't the theological ramifications that stymied me; it was my young son's total faith. I had planned on teaching Parker a fishing lesson, and he turned the tables on me.
"Gee," I said, sheepishly. "I don't know what we'll see in heaven, son."
"I've got an idea," Parker announced.
"Tell it."
"Let's put them back in the pond."
"I'm with you," I said, unsnapping the stringer and letting the two fish slide free. We stood together and watched them swim lazily back into the green depths of the water.
A couple of lessons came my way that day. First, I hope that in my zeal for the outdoors, I never do anything that would diminish Parker's respect for God's creation. And second, I pray I can learn to hold my faith as dear as does my young child.
This question blindsided me. I didn't know what to say. It wasn't the theological ramifications that stymied me; it was my young son's total faith. I had planned on teaching Parker a fishing lesson, and he turned the tables on me.
"Gee," I said, sheepishly. "I don't know what we'll see in heaven, son."
"I've got an idea," Parker announced.
"Tell it."
"Let's put them back in the pond."
"I'm with you," I said, unsnapping the stringer and letting the two fish slide free. We stood together and watched them swim lazily back into the green depths of the water.
A couple of lessons came my way that day. First, I hope that in my zeal for the outdoors, I never do anything that would diminish Parker's respect for God's creation. And second, I pray I can learn to hold my faith as dear as does my young child.
http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2011/02/A-Lesson-on-Faith.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru
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