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Fishing for Souls

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On his first day in a walking cast, my twelve year old son hobbled off toward the fishing pond with his friend.  Poles and tackle in tow, the two boys had high hopes of catching trout on this early morning expedition.  The arrangement included a ride to the park, an agreed upon time to call for a ride home, and the ‘buddy system’ rule in full effect.

Unfortunately, the boys had accidentally left the phone behind, which I did not discover until almost an hour and half had passed without any contact.  I rushed off to retrieve the boys, expecting that I might see them walking (hobbling) home, but there was no sign of them on the short route.

I parked illegally and ran to the shores of the pond, but I could not see them anywhere.  Slightly anxious, I yelled, “PETER!” (silence) then asked an elderly man parked on a bench near the shore if he had seen two young boys with fishing poles, one wearing a cast.

“No, but I’m having a great time watching the drama unfold up in that tree.  See the bald eagle?  He’s been repeatedly mobbed by the crows and a blue jay landed on a branch behind him and started jumping and flapping his wings to try to scare him off.  But you know, animals have a sixth sense, a way of knowing whether or not they are in danger, and right now they know that the eagle is not a threat so they are leaving him alone.”

You are no threat, sitting here taking in the beauty of nature. Clearly you did not harm the boys… but I do need to find them now, so our little chat about the birds must come to an abrupt end.

“Excuse me, but I am going to go and look for the boys now.” I hurried off, praying: Saint Michael the Archangel, protect us in battle.  Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.  May God rebuke him we humbly pray, and do thou oh Prince of the Heavenly Host, by the power of God, cast into hell Satan and all the evil spirits who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls.

As I jogged down the trail along the shores of the lake, I called my 9AM appointment to inform her that I would be late due to complications with my son and his friend at the fishing pond.  A fellow park-goer overheard my slightly frantic phone call and interrupted to ask if I was looking for two boys with fishing poles.

“Have you seen them?”
“Yes, we passed them on the road on our way down here.  One was wearing a cast on his foot, and the other was wearing the fishing net on his head.”

Not a second later, my phone rang as my husband called to inform me that the pair had arrived safely home, just boys, no fish.

Walking back around the pond lifting up prayers of thanksgiving, I was stopped by the eagle watcher, who asked me if my son had injured his foot playing soccer.

“Yes, he tore the ligaments in his ankle.”

He immediately launched into a monologue on his passion for the game and his hopes of someday writing a book about the beloved sport.  He then abruptly stopped the soccer talk and asked me if my son attended the local Catholic school.

Oh, yes, I am wearing my WWU Catholic sweatshirt, and so he was curious…

“No, we home school our children.  We thought they would attend Catholic school as we did, but when I attended the open house for kindergarten I had a kind of spiritual experience and just knew that it wasn’t a good fit and we decided to home school instead.”

With a sly grin he announced, “I am a recovering Catholic myself. But I find God present in His amazing creation and not in the man-made constructs of the Church.  The whole Jesus cult thing just doesn’t hold water for me.” He went on to bemoan the disparity between the rich and the poor, in particular the stark contrast between the US and Mexico visible at the international border.

“There’s no such thing as a recovering Catholic.  You’re a fallen human being, just like the rest of us.  Jesus left us His Holy Catholic Church and His Body and Blood to sustain us until we can be with Him in heaven.  You are right to celebrate God’s creation; this is an amazing thing to behold.  So also is the amazing beauty present in His Holy Church.  You should come home.  Jesus taught us to love one another with His selfless love, and to serve one another.  If you are only listening to yourself you are leading yourself astray.”

“I remember the time I went to St. James Cathedral,” he continued, “the violins were playing and the bishop came down the aisle wearing his flowing gown.  Who does the bishop care about? You know who he’s hanging out with?  The bishop is dining with rich people, drinking wine and…”

Now, sir, your talons are visible, and you are no longer at peace on the bench.  You are clearly on the attack.

“Not our bishop.” I announced. “You have no idea what you are talking about!  He knows my name-MY name.  We met once, and he remembers me, and calls me by my name!  Our Bishop Peter Sartain is a very holy man, not even close to what you are describing.  Why don’t you come home? Come on in for yourself and discover the truth about our Church.  You are clearly being misled about the true Catholic Church.  Come to Sacred Heart, any day.  You’ll see us there, every day.  Please come to Church, come home.”

I really need to go now, but I don’t want to just leave..

“What is your name?”

“My name is Mike.”

“Michael!  You have a very powerful patron saint! Do you know I asked St. Michael’s protection as I left you a few minutes ago to search for the boys?  Do you know the St. Michael prayer?”

“No.”

“St. Michael the Archangel, protect us in battle…”

After teaching him the prayer, and listening to him recite Tennyson in reply, I promised Michael that I would pray for him, and I made a dash for my illegally parked car in hopes of making my appointment.

Interestingly, although the boys’ walk home intersected with my drive to collect them, neither of us saw the other.  I think maybe God wanted me in the park with Mike and the bald eagle.

 

Pray with me for Mike, will you please?

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