A River Runs Through It

In the fall of 1992 during my first quarter of college I heard these words for the first time, "Like many fly fishermen in western Montana where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise. Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of those rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters."

A good friend, Bobby Newman, and I watched the movie A River Runs Through It, and in an instant we were both captivated by Montana. We were so excited by this land we spent most of the spring of 1993 planning a road trip for the specific purpose of fly fishing in Montana. My mother used to ask how were we going to get there, and being the simple Georgia boys that we were I replied, "We'll go to Chicago and turn left." She rarely smiled at this notion and I believe genuinely feared this road trip would become more than boyhood fantasy.

Like so many childhood dreams time, life and other things got in the way of our plan to drive to Montana to become fly fisherman.

Sixteen years later I stood on the banks of the Bighorn River this morning with a new friend, Brent Downey, who is a fly fishing guide with 20+ years of experience (www.deaddriftoutfitters.com).  He had agreed to take me out. Providing me the opportunity for my childhood dream to become a reality. 

Today 16 years of hoping became a reality as, finally, a fish rose. I landed my first Rainbow Trout this morning a good fish, 17 inches in length.

The cliche of people moving to Montana because of the movie A River Runs Through It is not something a person who desires to be accepted by the locals mentions. In truth that movie is not why I moved here, but as I think back along the path of the river that is my life I can't help but wonder if it is all connected. 

All told we spent about five hours on the river today. A short four mile float. I managed to land four Rainbows and had a fifth one on late in the day, but he got off. Almost as if the river was saying to me, you still have a lot to learn comeback again some day. 

My best fish measured just a hair under 18 inches. I managed to catch it on my own, so to speak. Brent had slipped away down the river to wet a fly of his own. I am most proud of this fish, mainly because I made a perfect cast to the area I was attempting to cast to, allowed it a good drift and set the hook perfectly when the trout took the fly. 

I felt like a small boy again today, excited by all the sites and sounds of the river. As the sun faded this afternoon I found my mind drifting to May 3, this is the day we begin the public gathering of our church. I am excited, scared and nervous about it. I worry nobody will show up and I worry more people than we are ready for will show up. Yet, I am excited, like a small boy, by all the sites and sounds that church planting has to offer. 

Despite the poetic beauty of the quote listed above it is not my favorite quote from the movie A River Runs Through It. Instead I have always fancied this quote,  "My father was very sure about certain matters pertaining to the universe. To him, all good things - trout as well as eternal salvation - came by grace; and grace comes by art; and art does not come easy."  

I do wonder. Why did it take me 16 years to first see that trout rise from the water on my line? My excuses are long. In fact, I simply allowed myself to be distracted from the desire of my heart. Or more specifically maybe I was just afraid, afraid of the journey that it might take to get there. Though I am not an old man, I have learned this lesson. I will not be distracted again and I will not live in fear.

As I stood on the banks for a final moment of reflection this afternoon I realized that for three years now I have been hoping for a church. It was clear to me on the banks of the Bighorn River that all good things, trout as well as planting a church, would come by grace; and grace comes by art; and art does not come easy.

And I am not afraid.