Another family experience we force ourselves to suffer through, so that our children can at least appear to be normal.
I was against it. My sole experience with fishing was when I was five or six, at a pond in Pennsylvania, during the 4H Fishing Derby, where Curtis Craig put a worm on my hook and then sternly ignored me as I sat next to him at the edge of the pond, in sheer horror at the gyrations of my unfortunate worm. After a while, I was allowed to quit fishing.
Benny decided he wanted to be a fisherman at church. You can guess what the verse was. He asked for fishing gear as his reward for completing the 50 day violin practice challenge. He got it.
I wasn't aware that by dangling a worm from a 10 dollar fishing pole, 12 inches below the surface of the Chesapeake Bay, that you could actually catch something. Apparently you can:
Fishing was strange. We convinced him to release the fish. Here are three conversations that Benny had shortly after catching his fish:
Me: Benny, don't you want to release the fish so that he can be happy and live a full life and tell all his friends about meeting you?
Him: No, I want to kill him and make him into fish sticks and eat him. That's what you're supposed to do.
(And I was worried about his sensitive feelings.)
Me: Benny I'm so proud of your patience! You were so patient!
Him: Do you think God is proud of me?
Me: Yes, of course.
Him: Because I'm a fisherman now?
(I don't think he's going to make a good Episcopalian. He always interprets scripture in a literal way.)
Me: Wow, Benny. Catching a fish is something that I have never done in my whole life.
Him: Is that because you didn't have enough patience?
Me: Well, yes, probably it is.
Him: Don't worry. You gave birth to a son who has patience.
(Hey. Something to comfort myself with.)