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I threw my only pole, an ultra-light with 6 pound test line into the back of my SUV along with my fishing box. My sister had called. “The turkey hunter has caught a couple of nice catfish out of the hole by the culverts,” she reported. “You might want to bring your pole.”

I was headed to the home ranch for a three night visit. May is my favorite time to go. The hills are green, the new calves are cute and spunky, and the deer flies have not arrived yet.

Back when I was growing up on the ranch, I fished for carp in the Calamus River that winds quietly through the meadows. They were big and feisty and Mom would fry them up. It was a meal we didn’t have to buy so “catch and release” was not in our vocabulary. I honestly don’t believe I became familiar with that phrase until after I was married. I was always made to feel that I had contributed greatly by providing the supper’s main dish. Catfish and bullheads were not available in the Calamus when I fished it as a kid. These species didn’t migrate upstream into our territory until the Calamus Dam (now known as the Virginia Smith Dam) was erected at Burwell, Nebraska in 1986. By this time, I was living in Buffalo, Wyoming – married with two small boys.

There are three culverts that cross under the road, just south of the house I grew up in. They replaced the old wooden bridge that was there when we first moved to the ranch in 1965. The force of the water through these culverts has carved out a nice big hole for the fish to hang in and a pool where the great nieces and nephews swim on sweltering summer days.

I rigged up my pole just the way Caleb, my son, had told me – a treble hook with some beef liver encased in a small nylon bag fashioned from a pair of panty-hose. This keeps the soft, pliable liver contained and on the hook.

I stepped out onto the middle culvert. I was pleasantly surprised that the trick with the panty-hose seemed to work well. After several casts the liver was still securely in place. Even though the Calamus is generally an easy going stream, the current is strong by these culverts. It pays to keep alert so your line doesn’t get sucked into one of the large rotund structures.

My heart rate jumped when I felt the strong tug on the fourth cast. It soared higher when – whatever it was – began pulling my 6 pound line back against the current. I watched in amazement as my open reel began to spin out of control. It seemed much like the time I hit black ice in my Ford Ranger. My light pole and reel – perfect for South Dakota trout – was going to be no match for this guy. I had little confidence that I would actually land this fish, but until he snapped the line – I was playing.

Since my equipment was no match, it seemed my best bet would be to allow him to tire out before I tried to maneuver him towards the shore. I was fairly certain the hook was secure since he hadn’t spit it out yet. Maybe, just maybe….if he would lose the fight in him…I could ease him up to the shore.

My plan was progressing forward. As he tired, I could reel him in closer in increments of inches at a time. Finally, I brought the exhausted fish so close that I could tighten my line so his huge head was above the water and lying on the sand. Keeping the line taut, I scrambled – well, not exactly scrambled – down the three foot vertical bank. Had someone been with me, they would have likely said I cautiously eased down the embankment. (It must have been my heart that was scrambling.)

Oh my…here I was! It looked like I was going to get this fish ashore! But, just as I pulled on the line a bit more to bring his whole body out of the water, the line snapped. One flap of his tail and he would be gone. Thanks to my nursing career, my critical thinking skills kicked in. I reached down and sank the fingers on each hand into his gills and pulled him up the remaining way up out of the water. If I could keep my fingers anchored where they were, I would have the biggest fish I had ever caught. Keeping my fingers in his gills wouldn’t be a problem but striving to climb back up the three foot vertical bank in that position would be.

I’m not sure how I managed to do it as I really do not remember the minutes that occurred from the shoreline to the road. I do know the whole experience was an adrenaline rush. That may have helped propel this 68 year old grandma vertically upward without the use of hands.

Sometimes, our own strength isn’t enough to do what’s placed in front of us. During these times we can rely upon a supernatural strength that we have access to as Christians. Philippians 4:13 tells us that we can do all things through Him who strengthens us. It’s a great verse to put in our back pockets for we never know when we will be faced with a situation that requires more strength than we have on our own.

That catfish was mighty fun to catch, but the big old thing was nothing to write home about when it came to supper. I would have just as soon had some of that carp Mom used to fry up.

Until next time, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

Pickle-ball rocks! I’ve always enjoyed the racket sports as it seems they are the only sport I’m halfway proficient at. I started out as a youngster playing ping-pong and badminton with siblings and friends, and then later with sons and their friends. As a mid-aged adult I found racquetball, and as a senior adult, pickle-ball came on the scene.

The one thing I’ve noticed when playing any of these sports is that being active and involved with people energizes me and lightens my spirits. They say exercise releases the endorphins and dopamine in the brain which are known as hormones of happiness.

I really noticed the lack of these benefits when I recently had surgery and was unable to participate in pickle-ball for several weeks. Thankfully, I was still able to get out and walk – until I rolled my ankle on a rock. I was on a quiet street where no one saw me (thank goodness). I got back on my feet and limped home to the recliner. Ice became my buddy – but she did nothing for my melancholy mood. I thought ice cream and Doritos might help, but they only added pounds to my waistline and guilt to my woes.

I found myself teetering on the edge of the pity-pit. The recent circumstances added to the already existing stresses of life made me feel as vulnerable as krill chased by a blue whale. One more discouraging thought and a feather like nudge could have effortlessly sent me tumbling to the bottom. Ever been there?

One negative thought often breeds another negative thought and so on and so on. I hated feeling this way but I felt powerless to change it. (My idea for mood elevation is to DO something active which I wasn’t able to do at this time.) I needed someone to slap some sense into me. Thankfully, I’m a reader and Charles Spurgeon may as well have taken me by the shoulders and shook me. What I was reading was his take on Isaiah 3:10 that says, “Tell the righteous that it shall be well with them, for they shall eat the fruit of their deeds.” Pastor Spurgeon expounded on this by saying: In all conditions and under all circumstances, it will be well with the righteous. It is so well with him that we could not imagine it to be better, for he is well fed; he feeds upon the flesh and blood of Jesus. He is well clothed; he wears the imputed righteousness of Christ. He is well housed; he dwells in God. He is well married, his soul is joined in the bonds of marriage union to Christ. He is well provided for; the Lord is his Shepherd. He is well endowed; heaven is his inheritance.

This was exactly the slap and encouragement I needed. How could I teeter on the edge of the pity-pit any longer? When I think of the grace that’s been extended to me I am embarrassed that I allowed myself to even creep to the edge of that disastrous pit. When we call God our Father, we are so very blessed!

Until next time….keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

Some of my readers will have lived during the hippie era of the 1960’s and 70’s. You may have even been a hippie. If you were you may well remember older folks in particular, who looked down on you for rejecting the mainstream American life. And, if you were an older person at the time, you may recall how this young group seemed beyond reach. They were like aliens on planet Earth. This brought a lot of advice from the older folks that the young ones didn’t ask for. “Get a haircut, wear normal clothes, and for Pete’s sake – quit ruining your mind with drugs.” Not all, but many of the partakers of the hippie culture came from troubled backgrounds. The movement was searching for meaning and hoping to find it buried somewhere in this new kind of culture. If you are acquainted with Pastor Greg Laurie and have seen the movie, “The Jesus Revolution” portraying his life, you would know this was true for him. His mother was a severe alcoholic that had been married seven times. The man he thought was his dad – was not. Greg had no stability in his home; just a lot of confusion and lack of direction; having no idea how to contend with either one.

Like Greg, I see a lot of parallels of these past times, with those of the present times. Are young people not facing mountains (heaps) and pits (deep despair) of confusion today? Some don’t even believe who their bodies tell them they are. The Enemy is telling them that God makes mistakes and they are believing it. Not only believing it, but acting on it. Young men think they surely are a woman caged in a man’s body and vice versa. Some are identifying as non binary, meaning they don’t have any one sole identity of either a male or female.

I can’t help but wonder if I had been bombarded by confusion from adults, society, and the media as a child or young adult if I would have questioned my identity as well. After all, I was much more into climbing trees and riding horses than playing with dolls and having tea parties. I was a tom boy for sure, but it never crossed my mind or anyone else’s that I was anything but a girl. God had made that plain with special embellishments that only girl’s receive.

As Christians can we strive to converse with those that identify as transgender or non binary through the lens of confusion rather than rebellion. Who would choose on their own to attempt to change their identity based on rebellion only?

If an open transgender or non binary person visits your church, how will you respond? Maybe Philippians 4:13 has been written for us – And I find that the strength of Christ’s explosive power infuses me to conquer every difficulty. (TPT) I know that through their confusion, these folks (maybe more than some) need to hear the voice of God. Won’t their ears be more likely to hear it if surrounded by God’s love and not fleshy ridicule?

Until next time – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

Exhaustion. I’ve had many opportunities to experience utter physical exhaustion. I bet you have too. My first encounter with this type of weariness was as a young mother with two boys under two. There were plenty of interrupted nights with feedings, fevers, stomach aches, and bad dreams. And then, once I returned to full-time employment and signed up for 12 hour shifts – those often turned into 13 or 14 hour shifts; only to have to be back to do it all over again the next morning. Two or three of those in a row and physical exhaustion creeps over into mental as well.

Because I remember these times, it attests to the declaration that they were significant events for me. But no event kept in my “exhaustion file” stands out as prominently as the time I collided head first with the Epstein Barr virus – better known as mononucleosis. I’m not one to get ill often, but when I do it always hits hard. Dr. Kirven told me my labs looked worse than any he had seen with mono. There were many symptoms that went with this – but none as bad as the total physical exhaustion I experienced for weeks. I had two preschool children that more or less ran wild while I was in bed and their dad was at work. One time a day – usually around 3:00 – I had enough energy to make it from the bedroom to the living room couch and on a good day, I might have been able to wash a few dishes. Friends from work brought us out meals and took up an offering to hire a housekeeper to come clean our ram-shacked house.

Charles Spurgeon describes a comparable exhaustion of the dove that returned to the ark with no olive leaf. I had never thought about this poor bird and the state that it must have been in. But it makes sense – there was no place to light – not a bush or a tree branch or a rock. She likely flew and flew and flew over the expanses of water for hours upon end. Once she had given up, she still had a return trip to make. By the time she saw the ark, she may have felt there was not one more flap to be had in her spent wings. Charles Spurgeon writes, “She has just enough strength to reach the edge of the ark. She can hardly align upon it.” Genesis 8:9 picks up the story….then he (Noah)put forth his hand, and took her, and pulled her in unto him into the ark.

Wow…isnt’ that just beautiful and isn’t that what God does for us….takes us in no matter what our condition? We don’t need to wait until we think we are presentable. His desire is for us to come in our rags, our sins, our mistrust, our doubts, our addictions, our shame….just as we are. When he holds out his arm to us we feel His strength uphold us. With Him, we can once again begin to soar!

Until next time….keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

Early mornings have always been my favorite time. While the noisy world to come is still asleep, the quietness offers my soul a few more minutes of blissful peace and strengthens me for whatever the day might bring. If I could choose my favorite place to have that first cup of pre-dawn coffee, I would imagine myself on the home ranch at the end of the long sandy road. I grab a hot cup and make my way to the patio outside the east door and sit on the bench. Every morning here is a gift, but at certain times it comes wrapped with a beautiful silvery bow. These mornings usually occur in the fall of the year when the air temperature begins to gravitate downward. The stream that twists and turns its way through the meadows, less than a block from the house I grew up in, has not yet given up the warmth it’s absorbed through the hot summer months. On occasion, when the temps of both the air and the water is just right, a trail of damp, eerie mist will hover above the stream. These are the mornings I can trace the hidden river – to the east and to the west – by the mystical ribbon that lingers several feet above the banks.

It seems my senses are sharpened on these special mornings – maybe the humidity plays a part. A pleasant earthy smell encompasses the damp air around me, encouraging me to take in deeper than normal breaths to enjoy the freshness. Extreme clarity is expressed in the cry of a lone mourning dove and the far away bellow of a hungry calf. I am grateful to have this almost sacred, momentary experience as I know it will not last long. Once the sun rises just a little higher and warms the air, the mist will flee as fast as it came.

Isaiah knew the truth of the mist too and used it to beautifully pen God’s response to our repented hearts. I have swept away your sins like the morning mists. I have scattered your offenses like the clouds. Oh, return to me, For I have paid the price to set you free. Isaiah 44:22

What peace comes with repentance and reconciliation! More peace than even an early misty morning.

Until next time – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

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