My Way Forward

Growing up in the rural Midwest has blessed me with treasured memories of childhood: riding grain chutes like water slides in the summer, hayrides through the corn mazes in the fall, and snow days spent making giant snow forts. As great as those memories are, there is a time and a place that my mind travels to more these days.

                It is early morning on a damp and cool summers day. I can see there is a thick fog that rests over the lake as my grandpa and I pull into the boat launch area. As our late 1960’s Chevy van slowly creeps along the gravel my impatience builds. Everything my grandpa did was slow and methodic. Doesn’t he know how badly I want to get out on the water and catch those fish? I suspect he does know, but maybe he just figures I am a hyperactive 9yr old invading his space

The routine, the meticulous manner in which everything was done, and the care with which all items were treated certainly had a religious feel to it. The boat engine was a 1950’s era Johnson outboard that looked absolutely brand new. It should, I would peak downstairs at night and watch him work on his outboards and polish the outside after every use. The rods and the reels were old as well but in perfect working order. As if these were religious artifacts used in some ancient ritual, everything was perfectly preserved for one specific purpose.

                We eventually unloaded the van and loaded the boat with every item we could possibly need. It was the depression era mentality on my grandparents. You never threw anything away because what if you needed it one day and didn’t have it? Same with packing, we never wanted to be on the boat and be in need of something and wished we had it. As we prepared to launch the Montgomery Ward 12ft aluminum boat into the water I recall the butterflies I would feel in my stomach knowing that today might be the day for a truly memorable fish, a fish of a lifetime.

                 The nose of the boat begins to pierce the water. My grandpa would “walk” the oars back and forth to begin our journey and the fog would slowly creep by like ghosts on the water. The fog, similar to thick memories of my childhood would just slowly fade away with the passage of time and the rising of the early morning sun. Most days, we would catch our limit and I even managed to catch some lunkers from time to time.

I want to go back to those days. I want to feel the cool of the breeze, the smell of the water, and the joy of making my grandpa proud with my catches. To be honest, I want to go back to a simpler time, to a sanctuary of my memories, and a place I can feel innocent again. Maybe I just really miss my grandpa and I regret never really appreciating the man who was literally in the same boat as me.

                My childhood was great, but not without its problems. I never lived up to the example my older sister set; I could never get the grades or please anyone quite like she could, and adults let me know it. Diagnosed with ADHD and on a regiment of Ritalin and Mellaril, it seemed difficult for me to contain myself and I often had fits of rage. The principal’s office was almost an assigned seat for me in elementary school and I usually made friends after I beat them up.

                But out on the water, with my grandpa was my sanctuary; my place where I felt accepted and everything else faded away. So, in a sense, it truly was a religious experience. It was just me, my grandpa, and the water. I was being saved by the water and my spirit was being renewed. I would find out years later that it was a sanctuary for someone else too.

                In the book of John chapter 21 we are presented with a very unique story written by “that disciple whom Jesus loved.” The context of the story is after Jesus was crucified, dead, buried, and resurrected that he returns to visit His disciples. We find Simon Peter in a boat with John fishing and having no luck. The way I like to envision this story is that Jesus is on the shore, and he asks them if they are having any luck. They reply with “NO” and Jesus recommends casting their net on the right side of the boat. They do so and catch more fish than they can handle.

It is at this point that John recognizes the voice as Jesus and tells Peter “It is the Lord.” Peter jumps in the water to swim to shore only to find a fire of charcoals with some fish and some loaves of bread (wouldn’t it be funny if it were 2 fish and 5 loaves) but no Jesus. They bring their fish ashore and Jesus appears to them and asks them to dine with him.

                As they are sitting down and eating Jesus addresses Peter as Simon son of Jonas and asks him if he loves him. Jesus does this three time to which Peter replies “Yes” and Jesus commands him to “feed my sheep.” It is a curious interaction and one that deserves a closer look.

                Why did Jesus call Peter “Simon son of Jonas?” Well, it turns out what Jesus is really saying is Simon son of Jonah. If you recall the story of Jonah and the whale, Jonah resisted the call of God to minister to the people of Nineveh. Jonah was a fisherman as well but resisted the call of God. So rather than catching fish, the fish caught him and delivered him to the city of Nineveh.

                By the third time of Jesus asking Peter this question, Peter understood what Jesus was getting at and it grieved Peter’s heart. Peter understood what Jesus was calling him to do. Jesus was basically saying, “Are you going to be like your father Jonah and resist me, because you know how that ended for Jonah, right?” After Jesus had supposedly left the disciples, Peter went right back to the very thing that he did before he met Jesus. Peter went back to fishing. Now that Jesus was gone, Peter returned to what he was before rather than moving forward.  It makes sense. I cannot say that I wouldn’t do the same in his position. Let’s be honest, I have done the same thing.          

                I am reminded of a story a pastor friend of mine once told. He describes a time when a friend invited him to go hunting on property he never hunted before. The pastor was given directions to a hunting blind and found it pretty easily. However, it started to snow heavily and by the time it was dark everything had changed. My pastor friend was completely lost. He eventually ran into a high fence that stretched for a long way in both directions. He knew if he followed the fence, he would eventually find a road or a building. As he is walking, he is seeing signs every few hundred feet that read

“PRIVATE PROPERTY

 Sisters of Mercy Convent.

All trespassers will be prosecuted

to the fullest extent of the law

Pretty funny, huh? Them sisters are anything but merciful to trespassers. There are places that we as Christians should never go. Then there are places we enter we wish we hadn’t. To me, it feels like going backwards is a trespass. Longing for what was or wishing I could go back is my trespass and God is calling me to go forward. I am being reminded not to return to what I was doing or dwelling on the past but pressing forward and feeding His sheep.

The future can be scary, and I certainly have my reservations about what lies ahead, but we must always press forward. What is in the past is in the past and we can never go back. The past is dangerous trespass even if it was good.  Romans 8:38-39 goes like this:

For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come,

Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

            Notice how the scriptures says…” nor things present, nor things to come?” It specifically leaves out “nor things past.” I used to think that is because the past can separate us from God; if we hold onto the past, we can separate ourselves. That may be true, but I also think it is because once we under the blood of Jesus, He literally cannot see our past. Wow, what a powerful skill to have. We, as humans, have a very difficult time forgetting. We are drawn to the past and our memories for better or worse.

                The truth is, we tend to remember what we want to anyway and even times that were not so great we tend to wax poetic about them. My past is under the blood, and I believe God is calling me to press forward; to focus on what is to come and leave the past where it is. There is no returning to the boat and fishing again. There is no capturing the magic of what once was. We must brush aside the ghosts of our past and press forward into the fog of a future that is unclear.

What I found out years later, once my grandfather passed away, was that he suffered from severe manic depression. The times he disappeared for days because of “work” or “business” were actually days he checked himself into a clinic. My mother and grandmother told me this after he passed. I was devastated to learn this. He was my hero, and he was perfect in my eyes. Now my memory of him was tarnished and it haunted me.

                I went on for several years after that refusing to ever fish again. I guess in protest to the lie and because I lost my friend. I resented my family for lying to me but maybe more because they ruined my memory of him. Then one day it all came together for me. My grandpa loved fishing with me because I didn’t know about his problems; the slate was clean with me. It was as much a sanctuary for him as it was for me. Two fishermen wanting desperately to better than what the world thought of them. He thought the world of me and I him.

                And so it is, I find myself fishing again, not to recapture some moment from the past or to avoid the call that God has put on my life to feed his sheep. The water still calls to me and I answer when time permits. I am pressing forward, still believing in what my grandpa was to me was real, believing in my Jesus, and believing the best is yet to come.

Biernutz_71

6/10/2022

“I would rather die with Christ and hope in my heart and be called a fool than to stand over the dead corpse of the Republic and say I told you so.”

P.S. At his funeral I was the last to view his body and pay my respects. As I walked up to him, someone else had placed a picture of me in his coat chest pocket. Everyone knew we were pals!