Fishing in a Small Pond

Willard was a young boy growing so fast his pants couldn't catch up. His blond hair sprouted from the top of his head like the top of a dandelion. Covering his legs were ever dirty blue jeans and his eyes twinkled with increasing mischief. Willard was an Ozark boy; his parents lived in a trailer on his grandmothers acreage. His father, Kenny, worked a couple of small jobs here and there around the Booneville, AR area. His mother, Lois, was cashier at a local convenience store.

I didn't know Willard that well. His grandmother and I had become acquainted at church, a small country worship space in the back woods outside Booneville. I didn't know Willard, that is, until the lock-in. Twenty-four kids, second grade to eight grade, made the trek to the church on a Friday night. We played games, ate pizza, enjoyed fellowship and fun, but Willard showed up. Willard, it seemed, was prone to pranks and very competitive. Throughout the night I could see him watching me out of the corner of his eye and probably thinking, "who is this joker?"

Willard and I and two other kids played a game called four square where a ball is pushed back and forth until someone misses and then they are replaced by the next person in line. Willard wanted to win, and win at any cost. I also am painfully a bit competitive. As the evening progressed, Willard and I engaged in an all out battle to remove the other from the game. Willard, all of ten years old, his face scrunched up in concentration, freckles seeming to pop out of his face, finally missed a ball. His ears wrinkled in frustration and as he shook my hand he said, "Pastors aren't supposed to win." I laughed. Pastors aren't supposed to win, aren't supposed to compete, aren't supposed to fight.

Those words got me thinking. Are pastors supposed to be pushovers? Are we to be "nice" at all costs? Or, is the pastor, like a shepherd, one who will fight for his sheep? Like King David, an ex-shepherd, do pastors fight the lions and bears to keep sheep safe? Do we reach into the very jaws of death and bring salvation in Jesus Christ to those who feel as if they are being devoured?

I'm hedging your, the reader's, answer.

Willard came to church the next Sunday with his mother and grandmother. After the service, Willard shook my hand and said, "Pastor Reid," he said my name with two syllables in a sweetly southern accented way - Ree-yud - "I'd like to invite you to my house for a fishing contest. Nana says you like to fish." Bowing to young Master Willard I said, "Willard, I accept the challenge."

Four days later, on a Thursday afternoon, I traveled ten miles by gravel road into the foothills of the Oachita Mountains. The overcast day seemed to indicate rain, but as I turned into the driveway, Willard stood at the end, fishing pole and miniature tackle box in hand. Rolling down my window, I greeted Willard. "Hello, Willard, are you ready to see me out fish you?" Willard didn't even respond. His smirk said it all. His eyes glittered at the thought of a fishing contest. Lois came outside and told us to have fun. She would be coming down later with Willard's sister and some lunch.

Willard told me we would be fishing in the family pond. As we walked, I noted that Willard carried only a cane pole with a hook and bobber on the end. I came fully stocked with new pole, reel, tacklebox and all the accouterments of a fishing professional (I am not a fishing professional but you are what you use - or that's supposed to be true). As we reached the pond, if one could call it that, I laughed inwardly. The pond was maybe an acre large. Two large stumps of trees jutted from the middles. From the branches of the tree hung webs of fishing line. I pointed that out to Willard. "Those are lines from other people I bring here."

We began to fish. I, casting into the pond carefully avoiding the stumps, catching nothing. Willard, on the other hand, cane pole encased in his small fingers, knew every little feeding hole on the pond. Fish after fish was pulled from the water. Willard would make sure that I was looking at his fish and then he would once again smirk at me and then hurl his caught fish at my line. "Maybe you can catch the ones I already caught." It was my turn for ears to turn red. Finally, I caught a nice bass. Just as I was about to hold up my catch for Willard to see, just as I was about to gloat at my catch, just as I held up the squirming, shaking bass in my hands, I noticed that Willard was holding in his own arms a four pound bass.

I looked from his fish to mine and slowly released my fish back into the water. I had been beaten.

Willard walked over, fish in hand. I fully expected him to revel in the glory of his moment, but he surprised me with astounding grace. "Pastor Ree-yud, thank you for coming to my little pond. You're the first person from the church that has come to see me. I want you to have this fish, it's not the biggest one in the pond - I wouldn't give you that one. That one ways seven twelve pounds; I've caught her twice. But this one you can have. I want to give you my pole, too. I've got plenty. That way, when you come back, you can catch more fish too."

I have that pole in my office to this day. I keep it as a reminder of what pastors do. We are supposed to travel to the place where people live. We are supposed to take an interest in people's lives. We are supposed to go out into the hills and valleys and meet people where they are so that we might talk about all sorts of stories that are woven into people's lives.

Every Sunday from then on, Willard and family would sit in the back and join in the service. They would sing loudly and pray quietly. Even though I am not with them, I continue to pray for them, to fight for them that God would move mightily in their lives.

I pray that I am not the only one that goes fishing in that small pond.