I caught a branch, and a tree, and a frog, and my arm, but not a fish

A story about the worst fisherman ever

He caught a fish!

I could hear him yelling from the other side of the bank.

I dropped my fishing pole on the ground, never mind that the line was still in the water, and ran over to him as fast as I could.

He had the fish, a small bass, on the bank of the pond in my niece’s backyard. Her lawn went right up to the muddy bank, with about two feet of Mississippi black mud leading into the pond.

It was the perfect fishing spot. Just enough shade, not deep in the woods like the pond we fished the day before that had an overabundance of ticks, and there were no big branches to catch our lines on like we did yesterday.

The little bass had been pulled out of the water just far enough to be laying in the mud. Well, more like flopping like a frantic beast, in the mud.

My son was also flopping around like the fish, trying desperately to get to his catch before it could manage to flop back in the water.

With nothing to grab on to, my son leaned down, aiming towards the flailing fish.

Losing his balance, he fell flat on his ass.

His brand new white socks were now plastered with thick, wet mud. His shoes, his shorts, and his hands were dark brown and shining with mud. There was more mud than there was kid.

Stifling a laugh, I did my best to help him.

As I reached my hand down to help him up, he screamed a scream that could be heard across the state. I looked over, following his eyes, and saw what prompted the scream. The fish had won the battle. He flopped for his life and managed to get himself unhooked and back in the water. He was victorious.

My son was not.

He sat in the mud, head down, contemplating the meaning of life.

“Mom, I’m the WORST FISHERMAN EVER. I caught a branch, and a tree, and a frog, and my arm, but NOT A FISH!”

I knew that feeling. I’ve felt it often. He had caught fish in the past. But it didn’t feel like it in this moment of failure. He could only see the failure in front of him and not his past successes. I guess he felt like if he’d caught one fish one time, he’d most certainly just keep catching fish.

We try and try and try and fail and fail and fail, and we literally watch the fish, with a much smaller brain than ours, make it back to the water and leave us sitting in mud on the bank.

I helped my son up, wiped what mud I could off his legs, and sat him down.

He got a big ole mom-hug from me before I said, “I know what I’m about to say seems backwards. But, the fact that you can make that statement - that you catch everything but a fish - means you’re more a fisherman than someone who fished one time and caught one fish. You actually know what it’s like to be a fisherman.”

He yanked a blade of grass from it’s base and turned it over in his hands.

It felt like ages before he replied.

“Yeah but I suck at it.”

I couldn’t hold back my laugh any longer and let it loose, risking hurting his feelings. But I knew that feeling.

“I know, I really do. Most things you see me do that I am good at, I initially sucked at. BAD. I promise.”

He really didn’t want to hear that, and he was in a somber mood for the rest of the day.

But his failed fishing was a great reminder for me.

What if joy isn’t optional?

What if I allowed the shitty life lessons to teach me and use them to grow?

What if I can make an intentional decision to choose to be joyful in the hard times?

What would life look like if joy was mandatory?

Not fake, forced joy…. but real joy. Allowing for laughter while I watch the fish flop away? Allowing for jokes at the end of a shitty day. Allowing for lightheartedness when things feel too heavy to wear? What if I made capacity for joy and room for more than just the hard things?

The truth is, it IS a choice.

I’m still going to feel all my shitty feelings - cause they suck. But I want to make room for joy too.

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