How God Gets Paid

No one saw it coming.

The fly rod slid into the truck door just as Bob was slamming it shut. All we heard was a loud ker-chuck!

Then Bob looked behind him and saw what happened: His $800 fly rod, nicely snapped in half like kindling at summer camp. “Randy!” he yelled. “Why didn’t you tell me my rod was in there?”

Everyone knew it wasn’t Randy’s fault, but Bob had decided to make Randy his whipping boy for the moment. Randy was the caretaker at the ranch and his job was, of course, to make sure everything was taken-care-of.

I was there, in Colorado, with three other friends from college. All of us had made the trek out West to get a break from the commercial world, and we just stood there. The experience was akin to watching someone spank their kid at Wal-Mart.

You know, you just pretend it isn’t happening. No eye contact. Besides, we were ready for a full day of trout fishing under the graciousness of Bob’s invitation. We didn’t want to botch that up. I don’t think we would have intervened even if Bob had started to shut Randy in the door. You just don’t want to mess up a good fishing trip.

Randy had thin yellow teeth that shot out of his gums like aimless toothpicks. His mustache was sandy brown and slightly transparent. Randy was thin and amiable, and you could tell one thing was certain, even after knowing him for only a few minutes: He admired Bob. He didn’t seem to mind Bob’s misguided indictment at all.

We slid into the truck, two in front and three squeezed in back. Clashing to the black cloth seats, bumbling with every hump, crevasse and dirt mound we crossed, the heavy truck tires pushing down sage beneath us. No one said much at first. And, it seemed like vain conversation didn’t suit Bob.

Seeking not to offend, we kept our silly thoughts and questions rambling in our heads, jolting with the truck as it buttonholed every bramble hill. Accosted by the beauty of the snow caps peeking over the low clouds and the majestic hills rolling in the distance it seemed right that words should be minimized and conversations shrunk to their core. The extra space provided room for the elements of God’s creation to fill the gaps in our minds. This silence, for some reason, made the moment even more alive.

Bob was a wealthy cowboy and part owner of the ranch. His yellow-straw cowboy hat and the deep lines in his face meshed together so you couldn’t tell where one began and the other ended. For some reason we were drawn to Bob, he seemed to have this towering personality. Eventually Bob started talking to us about trout fishing, tying flies and the unruly Colorado weather. After our short conversation we were more piqued than ever to test the ponds and reel in Rainbows, Browns and Albino with our whirring rods.

When we arrived at the first pond, Bob said it was one of his favorite spots. We wasted no time.

Focused, the only noise to be heard was the wisp of trout flies and the gentle splashes of water on the pond. We caught fish all morning, mostly Brown. The experience captured us. We were so excited we kept thanking Bob.

At one point Bob said, “I had a pastor come out last year, and that guy wouldn’t get excited about anything.”

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Brian is a writer and editor from Ohio. He works with creative and innovative people to discover the top stories, resources and trends to equip and inspire the Church.