Waters of Renewal

A day I will never forget.

The friend who went with me shot this photo.

Last Saturday was an emotional one. 

I used to fish with one of my best friends, Shawn, on a beautiful little inlet near his cabin in central Nebraska every Memorial Day. When the water was still, you could see the reflection of the clouds on it. In fact, every time I visited the inlet, the clouds were marvelous – big puffy balls of cotton hanging overhead in a clear blue sky. 

Shawn sold the cabin maybe 10 years ago and died in 2022. I never thought I’d be able to go back to that spot but a friend graciously offered to go with me recently, so we went.

At first, everything felt wrong as I looked over at where Shawn used to fish. He should have been there. The tears flowed as I grieved my loss all over again.

What should have been happening was a ridiculous fishing competition between two dudes who grew up in the city and didn’t know a lot about how to land the big one.

“This one is number four! Woooooooooo.” I might have said in my best Ric Flair impersonation as I reeled in a fish too small to ordinarily count but big enough for our friendly competition.

For the record, Shawn claimed a little peninsula (yes, I know that technically, a peninsula is a large mass of land, but just roll with it) close to where the fish entered the inlet from the river. Well, that was my theory anyway. You always have to have a theory about fishing if you are behind in the overall count, and often, I was.

Shawn near his prized peninsula in 2014, where the fish entered the inlet.

Shawn posing with his catch on his peninsula in 2013.

But no matter who was behind in the competition, the other one always claimed to have caught the biggest fish, and that’s what really mattered, after all.

At lunchtime, we’d dig into our coolers and munch on a sandwich we’d picked up that morning at the only gas station in Shawn’s nearby village. We’d chat about work, relationships, money and anything else that came to mind.

For dinner that night, we’d drive into the big city for a steak dinner. (No cleaning and cooking fish for us.)

I was thinking about all of this last Saturday as I stared at the empty peninsula and how the emptiness just felt wrong. 

Taking a stroll on Shawn’s peninsula last Saturday.

Doves cooed in the background. Fish jumped and splashed. A couple of cats prowled the water’s edge in search of dinner. And the friend who went with me for support gave me the space I needed.

At one point, we sat on a deteriorating bench near where I used to fish, and we opened our coolers to eat lunch. She asked me questions about Shawn and about the place (Shawn’s old cabin needs some work done now, and even the bench my friend and I were sitting on near the water seemed to be on its last legs), then listened to my answers.

I don’t know how long we were there. Maybe three hours. But by the time we left, I was able to smile. I can’t really say why.

Maybe because I got to go back to such a sacred place I never thought I’d see again. Or maybe because I had a friend who took an entire day out of her schedule to experience this with me. Or maybe because I’m beginning to heal. I suspect it’s all three.

I only know it’s a day I’ll never forget. And I’m so grateful for the experience.