Fly fishing is not always a spirit-rich experience for me. In fact, it might be telling that I first picked up a rod simply because I thought dropping a fly into inviting spots might give me something interesting to do while I was bored with not catching fish. I like its practicality, so I keep at it and trust that it is important to my soul. I find that it entertains my mind and hands when I need to transition off life’s freeway onto a slow dirt road. Occasionally, on days like this one, the practice itself falls away and takes with it all my seemingly important thinking. In those precious moments, I realize anew that I am standing—and always have been—in the nearness of God. Fishing the fly can take me between mountains or over impressive stones, but always, always I am beside waters and among trees. Reflecting on what God speaks to me in beautiful moments like these, I know I need to listen more closely to the waters and the trees.

In this particular situation, and in contrast to other interactions I have had in ministry settings, I was able to quickly and clearly hold my ground. I said, "I do smell gas, in fact, and I need help finding a solution." This refreshing moment of clarity reminded me that it is not always so easy to hold the ground of true self. In the flow of life, we sometimes catch ourselves doubting what we smell. We might initially attempt to ignore it or succeed in explaining away our sensations for a time. When the smell still persists, however, we begin to second guess ourselves, occasionally surrendering our perspectives too quickly because someone has pressed against our convictions. To underestimate or fail to exercise our perspectives faithfully is to drift away from the authentic, Christ-centered self.

We all have limits. It is an undeniable truth for every member of humankind. Whether we understand them to be the end of our capacities or the boundaries of our identities, we know the discomfort that accompanies the attempt to exceed them. Were discomfort the only outcome, we would simply discount them as inconveniences and pretend to avoid them. That would, however, dismiss the potential appreciation for limits that Benedict has been encouraging since the sixth century. In Ch. 4 of the Rule he urges the reader, “Day by day remind yourself that you are going to die”

“I surrender my need for security, affection and control. I surrender my need to change what I am experiencing in this moment. Welcome. Welcome."

These words are part of a gentle and down to earth prayer called "The Welcoming Prayer", which I learned at an event with Mary Dwyer and hosted by Minnesota Contemplative Outreach. Bit by bit, this little prayer is beginning to shape me.

We are pails of many colors

shapes and marvelous designs,

searching for somethings—anythings

which will fill us to the brim,

sharing one unfortunate flaw:

We are pails of many holes.

The leaks of imperfection

worsen by hurts and fears

until more is lost than

gained by fetching.

“Pour life into me,” we cry,

“which I might hold and carry.”

and when all passes through

we weep, “If only this or that,

a bit more and fast, then

I would have life to give.”

All the while something

quietly wells up,

a flood rising all around

seeps into every pail,

entering first low openings.

Now within and around

still rising a tide consumes the world.

Higher it flows, fills pails

outside in,

up to the brim, then beyond.

Feigning emptiness we miss this:

we are holy pails submerged

in living waters.