Fishing For Grace

The oppressive July heat covered the land like a heavy winter blanket soaked with water, smothering the general populace as it pressed in tightly about them, leaving mouths agape with panting breaths. Salty perspiration beaded up on brows and ran freely, cutting a swath across skin like a great fiver rushing along its appointed path, striving to reach its destination. The central Arkansas summer was a great brick oven, encapsulating the land and baking the denizens, sucking the life-giving oxygen from their lungs and stealing away the energy to accomplish even the most mundane of tasks. But the tyrannical gaze of the great Sol was nearing its end for this cycle as the great rock we call home turned from his gaze, nearing a temporary respite from the fiery eye.

I parked the truck just off the beaten dirt path leading through the green, empty fields to the oasis awaiting my visit, for there was no reason to disrupt this Edenic paradise with the forbidden fruit of progress, a man-made hunk of steel that would merely rip through the rich, green grass while spewing toxins into the atmosphere, and all in the name of some idea of comfort. Carefully climbing from the cab, I quickly gathered the well-worn Zebco, tackle box, and bait, beginning my short journey into paradise, my personal Elysian field – the pond.

Soon the object of my desire appeared and, as I quickly stepped atop the heaps of earthen material comprising the levee, the watery expanse loomed before my very eyes. Though many may look upon it as just another stagnant, insect-breeding ground, to some of us this signifies much, much more. The pond represented an important duality in human nature, for, though part of our being desires control and yearns for exercising our supposed God-given dominance over this conceivably lesser piece of our reality, we also long for its acceptance. We hope and wish that this small segment of the natural world might allow us within its existential confines, to accept us as one of its own and envelop us with its arms in a primeval embrace of family.

The dark canopy of night was slowly and forcefully pushing our solar neighbor beyond the horizon and to the depths below, drowning it within its mysterious, murky essence. But, before its final nightly acquiescence, the great star released one final burst of power, covering the skies with a psychedelic tapestry of blues and oranges and reds and pinks across the canvas of the night like Jackson Pollack at a Grateful Dead show, which soon faded away, eaten by the oncoming darkness.

The water lay still in dimming light, beckoning me, challenging me to uncover the treasures hidden within the murky depths. Catfish are an interesting sort of fish, lacking the armor covering of their cousins, they scour the pond floor, scavenging dead matter for their meals. Their appearance is not one of beauty, with their dull-colored skin and conspicuous whiskers, though this does little to belie the people of the South, for to them the fish is a culinary staple, a scrumptious piece of their fried food repertoire. And on this evening, this sought-after creature of the deep was my prey.

Like many other fish, you may snare a catfish with worms, those small, legless denizens of the earth, but, as many experienced anglers will tell you, dirt-dwelling invertebrates are not always the most effective choice. Being oftentimes scavengers by nature, the appetite of catfish leans heavily creatures that have recently passed from this world, so it then makes sense to use as your bait a deceased creature – or at least part of one. On this night, my once-living choice is chicken liver – inexpensive, but disgustingly slimy glands that are acquired in small tubs of blood and have a distinct odor which, despite the number of times you wash your hands, will remain for some time to come.

Removing the first oozing lobe from the tub, I sliced it into two pieces and carefully ran the large metal fishhook through the bile-filled organ several times to ensure that it would remain on it. After rubbing my hands upon my now-bloodstained jeans, I attached some heavy weights to the nearly invisible fishing line and tossed it into the water, watching it quickly sink, pulled by the unavoidable force of gravity upon the weights. In little time, the line ceased unraveling from the reel, so I quickly locked it into place and sat upon the damp, grassy ground, keeping the rod firmly in my hands and awaiting that magical tug from the water below.

I soon positioned the rod across my lap and reclined back, gazing at the now dark sky in deep thought. The moon shown with its mysterious, phosphorescent glow, gazing upon its dark kingdom of night from on high as multitudes of stars crowded about, trying to fill the cold, vast emptiness of space with their pin pricks of light. Directly overhead, mythical strongman Hercules was locked in battle with nearby Draco, while Perseus continually pursued his winged steed Pegasus across millions of light years in the deep recesses of the cosmos. It was a beautiful, cloudless night and, despite the near-stifling, heat, I was comfortable and content to just watch the universe swirl about me.

As the sun set, the area was relatively quiet, but soon the restless wildlife began a cacophony of sounds. At first, the crickets and frogs were rather noisy and sporadic in their timbre like a musician warming up their instrument prior to a concert, but these noises soon came to halt, followed by a moment of silence as the imaginary conductor raised his baton and nature’s orchestra readied itself. The crickets opened the symphony with their wikki-wikki-wikki cadence, their harmonious violins scratching out the night’s melody. Soon they were joined by the bullfrog’s deep bass, providing the lower notes for an accompaniment. Once the melody was set and deepened, the next and last player in tonight’s movement entered into the mix, the whip-poor-will, who released his trumpeting call high above the others, sending the magnificent piece into a new level of transcendence. The land was alive in triumphant jubilation with a tune that was surely penned by God Himself and I laid back, listening, in awe.

After some time passed, the extent of which I lost track, an old, familiar feeling struck. The hair on the back of my neck stood with anticipation as I gripped the rod that had been lying across my lap. Again the line pulled downward into the watery abyss, bending my rod tip toward the earth once again. It was unmistakable, I had a bite.

I hurriedly arose and let out a bit of line, hoping to wear the creature down a bit before reeling him in to my awaiting grasp. While catfish are not known to put up a magnificent battle of wills as others do, they don’t give up very easily, either. I lifted the rod tip up a bit more and watched as my prey pulled it down once again. Deftly, I began reeling the line in a little at a time, being sure to let the fish expel more of his energy in a futile attempt to escape. But, after several minutes of back-and-forth struggle between our wills, it gave in, forfeiting its life to the more evolved animal. As it reluctantly rose to the water’s surface, it gave one last hopeless splash with its tail as I scooped the fish up with a nearby net, avoiding his razor-sharp fins as I lifted it to eye level. It was nice looking, for a catfish, with nearly unblemished skin, sleek and gray, and weighing in at around five pounds.

Wetting my hands so as to not disturb his precious mucus covering, I took hold of the piscine creature just below his pectoral fins and wrenched the large hook, with bits of liver still attached, free from his gaping maw. For just a moment I looked at that twisted metal hook and the fish gasping for breath in my hand and felt a twinge of sorrow. The animal desire for gratification, whether needed or not, is a powerful yearning within the psyche. Given the limited capacity of this creature’s mind, it could not have grasped the absurdity of an avian organ nestled at the bottom his home. How much worse is it when you do know better?

So, I released it back into its watery home and, with a flick of its tail, the fish was gone.

I figure we could all use a little grace now and then.

The Gospel According to John (and Paul and George and Ringo)

Sam Strickland awoke in the morning with a knowledge that, to many, would be at least discomforting and more likely to evoke wild screams and cries of terror and despair, but he just shrugged his skinny shoulders and pulled on the wrinkled clothes piled haphazardly on his floor, content with the enlightenment that had been bestowed upon him during his sleep. The world was about to end, and he felt fine.

He gazed from his 4th floor apartment window at the hundreds of sentient carbon life forms passing below him with no idea that this would be the final day of their existence. Cars sped past with nary a care that soon their sturdy bodies of metal and plastic would be blasted into nothingness. Towering edifices of concrete jutted from the ground about him, monuments to supposed human progress that would soon be reduced to mere molecules floating through the vast, cold, desolate emptiness of space. Sam slowly inhaled, filling his lungs with the life-giving oxygen-rich air that would soon be intermingled with the microscopic pieces of the once-proud planet, as he observed the daily activities on the street below, cars honking, people yelling, dogs barking, and a faint smile played at his lips as he thought of their imminent destruction.

Never again would he be forced to endure the belittling comments and denigrating looks. No more would those around him scoff and laugh. Soon, it would all be over.

Sam wasn’t sure when the dreams started, but he could scarcely remember a time in his life when they were not constantly plaguing his nights, disturbing his regular excursion to the mythical palace of Hypnos, with visions of terror and death and destruction wrought from on high by some unseen Power. With one swift stroke from the celestial eraser, all existence would be eradicated. Immediately following these divining pictures of mass extermination was always the crown, the headpiece that had haunted Sam’s every thought for these many, many years. It was a ridiculously innocuous diadem, formed from cardboard and aluminum foil, and though everyone else lacked the capacity to understand, Sam knew that it would be his salvation from this world of toil and woe. The image of the crown was then followed by a date and time, an occasion that had been imprinted upon Sam’s brain since he received the first harrowing hallucination years ago, August 14, 2008, at 8:00am, and finally, after seeming eons of anticipation, the morning of that great disaster was upon them.

He was not always this cold and calloused, though. For years his impassioned forewarnings had fallen on deaf ears and soon family, friends, and seemingly the entire world’s population had forsaken him. They pointed at his unkempt clothes and his hand-drawn sign that read, “The End is Near,” and laughed, pronouncing him insane and pushing him to the margins of society. After some time, Sam finally admitted defeat, raising the proverbial white flag in a show of despair for his fellow human beings, who he and he alone realized were traversing an irreversible path to imminent destruction. Soon the incredible sadness and sympathy he felt for the unwitting billions around the globe facing a sudden and total demise disappeared, leaving him with only red-faced anger welling up within him and a certain sense of twisted happiness at the thought of the awaiting ultimate retribution. Sam glanced at the otherworldly green numerical glow on the digital display beside his bed and read the numbers with a developing satisfaction, 7:38, the apocalyptic moment was nearly upon them. Yes, this would be a good day, perhaps even the greatest day of his life.

Sam stepped out of his apartment door, not caring to lock it or even close it behind him as his normal fastidious nature would demand, and stepped into the dirty, dilapidated hallway of moldy walls and open, stinking bags of garbage on the floor. The muffled cries and yells of his fellow apartment dwellers could be heard all about him, but Sam continued on, oblivious to whatever may be ailing the poor souls facing their mortal destruction in a matter of minutes. He traversed the concrete stairs with nary a thought of the young lady sitting, sobbing with her head in her hands as he strolled idly by. With the end so near, what did it matter anymore?

It was a beautiful day in the city, with the bright August sun high in the gorgeous cloudless sky, bequeathing its gifts of light and warmth upon the earth’s ungrateful denizens, showering the planet with its plentiful photons of energy. The well-placed greenery spread about the city to give citizens at least a small sense of nature among the asphalt and smog and busyness seemed to attain a brilliant glow in the astral radiance from our planet’s lone star. Sam though, with only his mission in mind, perceived none of these pieces of picturesque beauty about him. With a fleeting look at a nearby clock standing upon the sidewalk he observed the time: 7:50. He intently focused upon the second hand, a single radii consistently measuring the circumference of the near circle every 60 seconds, as it ticked along its pre-chosen path approaching oblivion with its emotionless ticking. Time was growing short.

Sam pulled the bent and crooked tiara from his pocket and quickly attempted to smooth it out somewhat before firmly affixing it atop his head, not quite giving his slightly deranged appearance the majestic aura usually associated with crown-wearers, but, with a global apocalypse drawing nigh, his physical manifestation mattered very little. Fellow pedestrians gave him quick looks of disgust before continuing on their way like single-minded automatons with little to no care for the multitudes alongside them. For a moment, Sam felt a twinge of compassion for his fellow human beings as he watched them march unknowingly to their final destruction like lemmings barreling toward a towering precipice, but, after again registering their looks of condescension and revulsion, his loathing once again prevailed. The clock read 7:58.

The last two minutes of earth’s existence passed along like many before over the last 4.5 billion years. From those prokaryotic microorganisms floating amid the vast oceans over 3 billion years ago to the modern day human being with a laptop and a cell phone and an automobile, life had always flourished amongst the vast depositories of natural resources contained within this small blue orb floating through the measureless darkness of space. Creatures of one sort or another had survived cataclysmic extinctions occurring periodically since the birth of time, but this calamitous event would differ from those asteroid strikes of eons ago. Sam watched these representations of modern man - the pinnacle of Kingdom Animalia - hurry past him oblivious to their surroundings in a vain attempt to reach their destinations. 7:59.

Furtively glancing from the sky to the sidewalk clock, Sam slowly, methodically counted down the seconds to final doom. The harried pedestrians continued to push past each other, competing in an inconsequential race to reach a destination that would soon be dissipated into nothingness, 45 seconds to go. An uncharacteristic chill suddenly blew through the August air, inducing a shiver in all those present like a warning of the cold, blackness of space awaiting the disintegrated atomic particles that once composed the planet, 30 seconds to go. Sam dropped to his knees, panting with a euphoric anticipation, staring above at the sky while those passing by made a wide detour around him and his strange smile smacking of insanity, 15 seconds to go. “YESSSS!” he screamed out as the final seconds ticked away. Finally, he would be free. The universe went dark and Sam’s limbs flailed about him as the sensation of free fall took hold of his senses. Then there was no more feeling, no more sight, there was nothing.

After some indeterminate amount of time, the first awareness coursing through the bundles of axons in Sam’s arm was that of a cold, unyielding steel floor beneath him. His head swam with waves of nausea, causing him to keep his eyes shut tight while gathering his bearings. A sudden fear gripped his senses, clenching his stomach into knots and causing his brain to careen along crazed tangential paths of reality, as he became cognizant of the fact that he had no idea where he was. That was when he heard the humming. The tune itself was vaguely familiar, but in his current mentally addled state, the lyrics and title eluded his grasp.

“Hmm Hu Hmm Hmm Hmm. Dum dah dah dadum.”

It was normal voice, a human voice, and slightly off-key, but pleasant nonetheless. Sam slowly cracked open his eyes to see just what creature was standing before him humming this slightly discernable melody. He valiantly fought back the trepidation tearing away at his insides and lifted his eyelids, exposing his naked eye and causing his pupil to instantly contract due to the overly bright light glaring directly into his face. His eyes gradually began to adjust to the light and Sam was able to distinguish the human figure standing before him. The man was rather tall and strapping, with long dark hair and skin with a rich, full beard covering his ample chin. His garments consisted of robes that were so white they seemed to shine as if they had captured a twinkling star of their own and spread its essence throughout the fibers of the material. He held out a rough, calloused hand, extending his fingers toward Sam in an apparent sign of friendship and helped him to stand on his rather wobbly legs.

“Hello,” the man said in his stronger-than-expected voice, “I’m Jesus.”

I’ve lost my mind, Sam thought to himself as he squinted and scrutinized the imposing figure standing before him, “Wha?”

“You know, the Prince of Peace, the Son of God, the Messiah. And I know who you are, Sam Strickland. There’s nothing you can know that isn’t known. Nothing you can see that isn’t shown. Nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be.”

“But, but, how? I don’t understand.”

“Yes, I know Sam. Before now, living was easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see. But, I have chosen you, Sam Strickland, to be my vessel, my prophet, to humankind.”

“But, the earth was destroyed. I saw it…”

“Did you? Look behind you.” Sam slowly turned around and there before him, on the other side of a wall of glass, was that blue sphere that he and 6 billion others called home. Though rotating about its invisible axis at a breakneck speed of 1,070 mph, it seemed to hardly move at all as it floated along its invisible path through the infinite nothingness. Sam, with eyes wide open and mouth agape, stared in astonishment at the incredible beauty of the scene and at the revelation that all had not been destroyed.

“Ah, yes. There’s something in the way she moves, Sam. You are correct that your world, your old life, is no more. From this point on, you will begin a new life as a messenger for God.”

“But, why me? I mean, I don’t even go to church or anything.”

“You were chosen long ago, before you were even born into the world. Though you did not realize it, you’ve always known. It’s always been in your mind, submerged somewhere in the far netherworlds of your subconscious. Sam,” Jesus reached out and held his arm, “you were only waiting for this moment to arrive.”

They stood in silence for a moment, with Sam looking at the celestial bodies floating past with a bit of terror at the unfamiliarity of the situation, while he attempted to formulate a question for this man purported to be the Son of God. “Jesus, what exactly is your message?”

“Of course, have a seat, please.” A stool seemingly appeared out of thin air and Sam gingerly settled onto the extraordinarily comfortable chair. “Would you like a slice of wild honey pie?”

“Thank you,” Sam answered as he took the delicious-looking pastry and began to eat.

“Sam, my message is the same as it has always been. It is the same proclamation that I have been making through my prophets for the last two thousand years. It’s a simple sentence, though it can be rather hard to keep. Sam, all you need is love.”

“That’s it?”

“That is all that is important, Sam Strickland. All you need is love. Love. Love is all you need.” Sam could have sworn that, as Jesus spoke, he could hear a band of horns echoing in the background.

“What happened to the past prophets? Why did their exhortations for love go unheeded?”

“You see, at first the people were happy to comply, but love has a nasty habit of disappearing overnight and soon, despite the words from my prophet, they fell back into their old ways.”

“But, what can I do?”

“That’s the rub, isn’t it, Sam? Let’s take a closer look.” Suddenly the view from the window of the planet earth zoomed forward like a powerful camera, hurtling through the atmosphere and focusing, in a matter of seconds, from continent to country to state to city and all the way down to the street outside of Sam’s apartment. Crowds of people hurried by in their huddled masses absorbed with their own thoughts, oblivious to those around them. With a look of sadness in His eyes, Jesus turned to Sam, “All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong?”

“Will they ever learn, Sam? Will they ever realize that money can’t buy them love? Will they look past their own petty selfishness and see that life is very short and there’s no time for fussing and fighting, my friend? I wonder these things constantly, and it fills me with sorrow.”

“Can there be any hope, Jesus?”

“There is always hope. Though the crowd of people may turn away, there will be an answer, let it be. Sam, you have been chosen and you will spread my message of love around the world.”

“But, but I don’t understand. Why me? There are hundreds of thousands of others who would be much more qualified than I.”

“Well you know, we all want to change the world, Sam. And this is your chance. Return to your home and tell the people my message, that all you need is love. I want you to lead the people, Sam, and come together right now over me.”

“Jesus, I want to hold your hand!”

“You’ve got it, Sam Strickland! I will always be with you, here, there and everywhere, my presence will follow. Here comes the sun and it is time for you to leave, time for you to get back to where you once belonged. As you travel that long and winding road, know deep within your very being that I am walking beside you.”

“The voice of the Father beckons me now, His limitless undying love which shines around me like a million suns, it calls me on and on across the universe. So, you must go. Goodbye, Sam.”

A bright flash of brilliant light flashed before his eyes, causing him to clench them shut as the feeling of free fall again gripped his mind. His limbs flailed about him in the empty darkness before he again felt that familiar, cold, hard sidewalk beneath his prone body. He slowly opened his eyes, allowing the bright sunlight into his pupils little by little until his sight adjusted to the new surroundings. Once again he sat on the street in front of his meager apartment dwelling. People marched by, as always, like automatons, completely oblivious to their surroundings and to the newly enlightened man sitting at their feet.

Sam thought of the people marching by. He thought of his screaming neighbors in the apartment building. He thought of the young girl he had witnessed crying on the steps. The task was immense, but he walked on with confidence, Christ’s words ringing in his ears, “All you need is love.”