Fishing For Peace

Meg and her oyster shell

My Dad loved to fish. No, I mean, He really looooved to fish. It was more than a hobby for him, it was a time of respite as he would often sit, contemplate, and pray over events both big and small, while waiting for a “nibble”; as well as the thrill of the catch. He rarely kept the fish he caught, as it was truly a sport for him. Therefore, we really had no proof of the fish stories he would tell. He fished year round, many times after he would get off work. And on weekends, he’d get up before the sun even had a chance to crest the horizon. Steelhead season, I have to believe was his favorite. And my worst, as winter’s breath inevitably chilled my bones and threatened to stay!

As a young girl, nothing could be worse than getting out of bed when it was still dark, dress in layer after layer and go sit in wet, smelly sand for hours upon hours, while Dad fished.  Though my siblings and I would always find mischief along the sandbar or create massive sand murals with pieces of driftwood, and end each trip swinging our legs off the tailgate of Dad’s ‘66 Ford, while eating warm bologna sandwiches, I still resolved that nothing could be more boring than to sit and watch a pole for hours on end in hopes to get a bite. I believed that until I was 26 years old. (Therefore this is an old story!)

Though I had not gone fishing with my dad for many years, I had decided that when I traveled home with my then 9 month old daughter, I would go with him. I don’t know why I thought it would be any different or why I was now subjecting my baby to this torrid event, but something drew me.  I suppose I wanted what my dad had found there all those years, whatever it was.

Sipping strong coffee from the lid of Dad’s green dented thermos, I sat with Meg on the slight incline of the sandbar, watching my dad. I loved everything about him in that moment, especially his crooked smile or the way he would bite his lower lip while he putting fresh bait on his hook. He waded out into the river a little further and cast his line again. I watched how the river glided swiftly past him, over fallen trees, and boulders;  continuing downstream, narrowing in places, skimming the sandy bar, and eventually spilling into another body of water. I loved watching his line plunk into the river, creating a series of expanding rings, until they disappeared. I was enthralled by the entwinement of regal simplicity and splendid authority.

I had sat on the banks of this river more times than I could count, but not until this day, did I pay any attention to its fluid movement and how it formed itself to the shape of whatever object stood in its path. The river was never without motion. I had seen it bursting with energy as its upstream source aggressively pushed its mass into this stream. I had seen it flooded as well as low enough to count the speckled rocks lining its floor. I have seen it nearly still, just ripples carelessly riding on the surface. Still, always in motion.  

I turned my face to the morning sun, letting its warmth seep into my soul.  The thought-provoking words of Horatio G. Spafford (1873) came to mind in that moment, a precious hymn I sang as child, growing up in a small Baptist church: “When peace like a river attendeth my way…” I hummed the song repeatedly as the melody soothed my wounded soul and the words caused me to contemplate what peace really means. “Peace like a river”, I whispered to myself as I sought out the characteristics of the river only 15 feet in front of me.

“Peace like a river”. The book of Isaiah uses this analogy twice, though the Bible addresses peace 251 times. It is the thing that we seek, bend over backward to meet. However, peace is not only as Webster defines: “A state of tranquility or quiet”, but experiencing this while meeting many bumps and unexpected twists and turns on life’s journey. Peace is not something that we can attain on our own merit, despite our best effort. If you are like me, you may have attempted to eliminate activities in hopes of finding peace. We reason that we are too busy to really have peace in our lives. However, we are not meant to live life in the stillness of a…a pond!  Rather, we must be connected to the Holy Spirit! He is the upstream tributary or source that feeds into the river. Rivers are constantly being renewed by active, ongoing motion. It is not filled once and left to fend for itself. Christ encourages we who are thirsty, we who are in need, to come to the fountain (Is. 55:1) Here, He fills us with His life-giving water.  But we must keep going back to the source. A relationship with Christ is the key component to peace. This filling enables us, like the river, to spill out into another body of water, overflowing into the lives of those around us.

I let out a sigh of gratitude, smiling a toothless smile as I hung my head, saying a prayer of thanksgiving for this visual lesson. Holding my sweet Meg in my arms, kissing her plump cheeks, and breathing in her sweet fragrance; I released my preconceived notions that life should be easier, without so much pain, and heartache. Storms of adversity will wash over us, attempting to steal our attention from the One who gives us peace. Beloved, don’t let them. Christ grieves desperately for those who whose hearts and souls are in unnecessary turmoil (Luke 19:41-42).

I am reminded of the parable of the disciples out at sea while a terrible storm raged, violently tossing their boat about. They were terrified. I imagine some stood wide-eyed, watching the sea swell and the vengeance of the wind whip their boat perilously, while others closed their eyes tightly in an attempt to sooth their fears. However, I certain they all watched with wide eyes and dropped jaws when they saw Jesus walking on the water!  I am positive they believed that Jesus would save them by calming the storm. Their thoughts were interrupted as Jesus called out to them, “Take Courage! It is I. Don’t be afraid”. It is here that you would expect Jesus to calm the storm. He did not. Not until he climbed into the boat did He calm the storm. I believe we have been sucked into this mentality as well: believing that peace is equated with rescuing—from calming the storms of life. “The point is not that we don’t have anything to fear, but that [Christ’s] presence is the basis for our courage” (Beth Moore). With the “winds still raging, He said, ‘Take Courage. It is I. Don’t be afraid’”. We can have peace when we authentically surrender to the trustworthy, sovereign authority of Jesus and keep going back to the “well”.

I set Meg down in the sand and encouraged her to play, when I came across an oyster shell. It had been brutally weathered and grayed with grains of sand lining the broken, ruffled layers on its back, revealing a life of being carelessly tossed about in the continual motion of the waters. I flipped it over, rubbing my thumb up and down its smooth, iridescent inner shell, thinking that perhaps an irritation the size of a grain of sand had made its way into its life, forming a peal, a treasure of great value.

I had been wounded to my very core 18 months earlier when I had been raped, conceiving a child, my Meg, as a result. My heart had been hemorrhaging all these months as I attempted to understand where God was in all of this. I went from blaming Him for the situation because He allowed it to happen, angrily accusing Him of not loving me; to a place where I fully embraced Genesis 50:20, “What Satan intended for evil, God intended for good”. In this moment, holding Meg, my precious pearl, a seeming reminder of incredible pain, she was/is infinitely more of reminder of the peace that God grants us when we surrender to His authority.

My nose began to run as I could not help but to think God had orchestrated this life lesson specifically for me, this day. I bit my quivering lip and ran out to my Dad, with Meg in tow. “Hey Dad, look what I just found”, showing him the oyster shell. I was a kid again, still learning, still constantly amazed.

Meg’s name means “pearl”. She was named Meg for that meaning.  She was brought into this life through a horrific situation, but without a doubt, is my pearl of great value. So great in fact that a Merchant I know so very personally sold everything He had for her…and for you. “Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls. When he found one of great value, he went away; sold everything he had, and bought it”. (Matthew 13:45) Our identity is not in the bumps and bruises that we accrue, rather our identity is the One who freely gives us peace in the trials of life. He sees you as His pearl, nothing less!

The oyster shell, 12 years later, still sits on Meg’s dresser and serves as reminder that pearls often come through the storms of life and peace can and will accompany us when we surrender to our sovereign Lord’s authority. I went fishing with my dad that day and caught a whole lot of peace!