The Book

Do you ever remember a time when, for no apparent reason, an assignment landed in your lap? That’s the premise for writing this. I cannot recall how this work took precedence. The title entered my mind with no warning. Hence, I cannot explain to you why I find myself compelled.

One of the earliest memories I have as a child involved a long drive from western New York State to the thumb of Michigan on the Lake Michigan side. I must have been five, maybe six. My paternal Grandmother remarried, and the Shepherds owned a cottage on the eastern shore of the lake.

Why would anyone build a dock only eighteen inches wide? It makes no sense to me now, but there it was. Appartently, getting to the boat I never saw explains the only reason the dock existed. During our brief stay my father determined to teach my two-year-older sister, Patti, and me how to fish. He purchased two of the cheapest fishing poles with reels I’ve ever seen, found some worms, and took us to the dock. My sister sat with her legs hanging over the dock on the right side and I assumed the same position on the other.

Dad proceeded to set up the leader, hook, and worm for me, threw it into the water, and commanded, “Don’t reel it in until you feel a bite.” He then proceeded to do the same for Patti. It didn’t take long until I felt a tug, so I cranked the line. No fish, so I called dad and pointed. He slid over, fixed the worm a bit, and added a bobber. “Wait until the bobber goes under.” He slid back over to tend to Patti’s rig.

Wouldn’t you know the bobber ducked out of sight! I reeled the prize in, only to find an empty hook. Now I’m learning dad’s not going to be happy with me. So, I put the rod over my shoulder and mimicked what he did to get the hook back in the water, but it wasn’t going forward. So I tugged a little.

Dad hollered, “Stop pulling!”

I turned to look, and he had hold of my line along with his right ear. The hook embedded in his lobe. It remains the only time I’ve ever thought about fishing for men.

In the primary Holy Bible carried by the majority of colonists headed for the Atlantic coast of the New World, the Geneva Bible in Matthew 4:19 states, "And he saith vnto them, Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men."

How many of you, even though solidly Christian, ever caught a man? I imagine a few snickers as the women tap their husband’s hand.

The pattern became evident throughout my young life. One picture shows my maternal grandfather helping a friend who dad picked up to go fishing with me. Jimmy had caught a fish and grandpa Cook helped him land it. I may have caught a chub, but not a fish.

One of the least expected gifts my father gave me as a young teen turned out to be a nine-foot, three-section, split bamboo fly rod with an automatic reel. He had been an avid fly fisherman but gave all his stuff away some five years earlier. Now I was to learn how to place a little bitty dry fly in the center of a hula hoop. Rather incredibly, I did learn to do it consistently. But I had no idea how to think like a fish. I could cast overhand, underhand, with a roll, and sideways, but it never resulted in catching a trout.

Perhaps you can see why experiencing what Jesus taught the disciples became the farthest thing relative to my goals, even though I had already accomplished it.

These memories stand clear as day to me, yet God hadn’t forgotten.

At one point, as a fourteen-year-old Boy Scout, I earned the Protestant God and Country award. I see it every now and then when looking for other memorabilia. But the lingering memory fades quickly while a young boy.

One fact of life most never consider remains a significant part of my story. One’s frontal cortex, where thought matures, does not happen until at least the age of thirty. It explains why my conversations with my father never reached a connection until my thirty-second year of life in 1981. Oh, I respected him, obeyed him, and we had some plain understanding like the time he refused to accept the fact it took me longer to learn trigonometry than the teacher expected. The U for unsatisfactory work drew the exclamation I wouldn’t be playing basketball if the grade didn’t come up. Mission accomplished and basketball remained. Dad died five years after my maturing when we lived two hundred miles away. I was in the room with him when he expired.

I asked him some time before his death if he knew Jesus.

“I’ve made my peace with God.”

I won’t know until I get to heaven if dad is there.

The man who excels at catching men the Godly way, Pastor Robert Engelhardt of the Catskill Mountain Christian Center in Margaretville, NY, turned my life around as it demanded I focus on Jesus. While sitting under his leadership, my friendships matured. A Greek first, followed by a black man who sticks closer than a brother, and a Puerto Rican corrections officer who remains a solid connection resulted from over thirty years of Pastor Bob’s teaching. He caught me so well; Jesus’s other words call me to repentance.

If I may be so bold, I’d ask you the same question I asked my dying father. Do you know Jesus? Not simply knowing about Him. Scripture tells us even the demons know about Him. Take some time to understand there’s only one way to reach eternal life. It’s through The Book we know as the Holy Bible. Jesus said it. “I’m the Way, the Truth, and the Life. No man comes unto the Father but by me (John 14:6).” Take it by faith, because you’re not likely to understand it in this life.