Angling Admonitions

Acknowledgements

I would not have gotten this book project finished if not for the typing, editing and compiling by my friend and sister-in-Christ, Rosemary Campbell. I would like to thank her for the numerous hours and many days she spent typing, reading and correcting the errors in the original script. Thanks again Rosemary for all your work; may you share in the eternal rewards of this book.

ANGLING ADMONITIONS

Copyright ©

2020

Barry Blackstone. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers,

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Resource Publications

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paperback isbn: 978-1-7252-6788-6

hardcover isbn: 978-1-7252-6789-3

ebook isbn: 978-1-7252-6790-9

Manufactured in the U.S.A.

05/05/20

OTHER BOOKS BY BARRY BLACKSTONE

Though None Go With Me

Rendezvous in Paris

Though One Go With Me

Scotland Journey

The Region Beyond

Enlarge My Coast

From Dan to Beersheba and Beyond

The Uttermost Part

Homestead Homilies

Rover: A Boy’s Best Friend

North to Alaska and Back

Another Day in Nazareth

Sermonettes from the Seashore

Earth’s Farthest Bounds

Prelude

Angling Admonitions

Simon Peter saith unto them, I go a fishing.

—John 21:3

I am sitting beside one of my favorite fishing holes as I begin this series of Angling Admonitions. I am once again at the Anchorage, a small cottage owned by my brother-in-law’s family. This shore retreat on Big Lake in Downeast Maine has been a stopping off place for my dear wife Coleen and me for over ten years now. I fish for smallmouth bass, white perch, and chain pickerel in its shallow waters, but just ten miles up Route One is one of the finest landlocked salmon fisheries in North American, the fabled Grand Lake Stream. I have been fishing longer than I have been a fisher-of-men, but I wasn’t long into the ministry for the Lord Jesus Christ before the two began to merge in one area—the theology of admonitions and the practical applications of their teachings.

I recall my first fishing admonition. I was on a trout fishing day-trip with my father, Wendell E. Blackstone, and his cousin, Hartson Blackstone, and my cousin and his son, Bob Blackstone. We were heading for our father’s favorite fishing hole, Beaver Brook. Our goal was the elusive Eastern Brook Trout. Bob and I were excited because we had heard for years the legendary fish tales of the huge trout that could be caught in that Great North Wood’s stream. After an hour and a half riding in Hartson’s pickup, we still had a 45-minute hike down a winding woods road to the secret stream. Those were the days when Beaver Brook was only accessible by daring and determination. Eventually we arrived at the brook but instead of waiting patiently for our fathers to catch up and instruct us how to fish and where to fish, Bob and I immediately began fishing with our chicken coup worms. However, as soon as my dad made the bank of the brook I heard this admonition, I hate to tell you this, boys, but you are standing in the middle of one of the best pools on the brook! I learned then and there that excitement and enthusiasm aren’t enough to be a successful fisherman, and neither are they sufficient to be a successful fisher-of-men.

Over the years I have fished for many species of fish in numerous fishing holes in the United States and Canada, even Alaska. I have also learned that you need the right equipment as well as the right techniques. It is important to study the fish you are fishing for as well as studying the fisherman who fish for those fish. One of the best lessons I learned was to listen to my fishing guide. Over the years I have had the privilege to fish with some good and knowledgeable fisherman, including some of the finest Atlantic salmon guides in Canada. I was too proud early on to learn from them, but as the years passed and I humbled myself to be taught by those that had fished a particular pool before me, the more I witnessed and watched the unfolding tactics for fishing for fish. The more I fished and the more I studied the Bible, I saw the amazing parallels between fishing for fish and fishing for men.

In 1970 I began witnessing for the Lord. I had been saved since 1958, but had never taken part in the grand fishing expedition called The Great Commission. (Matthew 28:19, 20) As with fishing experiences, I was slow to learn and observe. Instead, I just jumped in with both feet. Oh, I got my feet wet, but I saw few results like on Beaver Brook that first morning with Bob. Once I realized I needed a guide (Holy Spirit) and that I could learn from the great fishermen (soul winners) of the past, I soon was taught the techniques and tactics that work well in the ongoing ministry of fishing for the souls of men.

I also saw through my fishing experiences that many other Biblical principles could be more easily understood if applied to angling. So contained in this series of articles are some Angling Admonitions that I have learned from blending together Biblical precepts and fishing concepts. I tell people all the time that I take the greatest vacations in the world fishing for fish, (recently I finally took my first trip to Labrador) and that I have the greatest vocation in the world: fishing for men. Let’s go fishing and see what we catch in the pool we call the Word of God!

1

Wonderful Wings

too wonderful . . . the way of an eagle

—Proverbs 30:18, 19

Just as the sun was starting to set I heard the hollow cry of a bald-headed eagle drifting down out of the evening clouds to the east. In a 360-degree search of the horizon I soon spotted not one but two adult eagles in fresh, full plumage working their way slowly along the wooded shore just above the narrows. These grand birds were winging their way towards our ice shack on Branch Pond.

Cutting gracefully through the cold air, the pair soon flew by our camp at about fifty feet above the ice. I watched them as they reached the main part of the lake and turned back. They must have spotted what remained of the three lake trout we had cleaned by our water hole. Within minutes they were back soaring easily in a giant spiral waiting patiently for us to leave so they could have supper. How did they remember that we always stopped fishing with the setting of the early afternoon January sun? They must have been watching our pattern all winter because they were just in time for dinner, that is, if the lame seagull didn’t get the scraps before them. I have often wondered what a duel that would be, but I suspect a crippled seagull is too smart to tackle a pair of healthy eagles. To defy an eagle over a few togue parts wouldn’t be wise or healthy.

But as I watched for our seacoast neighbor, he never arrived. He must have suspected that seagulls hadn’t been invited for supper at the Braley, Ingalls, Parker ice house and fish shack. The eagles had the sky to themselves as they hung lightly on a gentle breeze that had begun to blow up the lake. Finally, the two magnificent creatures settled down on the bare branches of an old pine just on shore. The heavy weights formed the classic eagle perch as they watched the four of us pull our traps for the last time. What an amazing, superb sight they were, my closest and most consistent view so far in my life. The pair had been coming to visit off and on all winter according to the boys. They fished every good day, but I could only fish on the odd day. They said on rare occasions the pair were joined by a juvenile eagle still dressed in gray. The eagles were back to Branch Pond, and, like their cousins to the north, they only had a few miles to go to the crags and cliffs of Acadia National Park as the eagle flies. The warmth of the ocean kept the eagles in Maine, and they only ventured inland when lake trout was on the menu.

Dusk was breathtaking that night because at sunset a full snow moon was coming up. As we made our way off the ice that afternoon, the eagles left their resting place and took to the air again. No doubt they ascended just long enough before they descended to eat their supper in private. God is right. The way of an eagle in the air is a wonderful sight, especially when the eagle is American and the air is Maine.

2

Curving Creek

I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.

—Philippians 2:14

Having been raised in the brooks and streams of Aroostook County, Maine, I know of the lure of beyond the bend. I have waded along many a winding stream, and the thrill is always around the next corner or around the next curve. It is the romance with anticipation.

Anticipation is the true spirit of beyond the bend. What we know and have seen often becomes dull and drab. Our daily paths often lose their glamour and glitter as we repeat our wading. Beyond the bend with its uncertainty and unexpected sights draws us onward and forward as we search for that illusive catch. I have this problem every time I fish a trout stream. The best hole has to be just around the next bend. I will always fish around one more corner before I head back upstream, fish or no fish; this philosophy makes for some long days.

God has created our lives much like the curving creek. How terrible would be our lives if it were just one long straight streambed. I remember in 1972 traveling on the straightest railroad track, at that time, in the world. It was 300 long, dull miles of straight rail without a dip or a drop or a diversion. I was traveling across the Gibson Desert in Western Australia with my cousin Bob. It was the most boring part of our ten-week mission’s trip to Australia. Double the boredom when we had to retrace it on our way home! So is life without its curves and corners. We might not be able to see down the brook, but that is what makes life the adventure that it is. We never know what is coming up, but we know Who holds tomorrow, and we know Who holds our hand.

Vance Havner has written, Indeed, that is what faith is: confidence in God’s future. We know so little of life, of truth, of God and destiny. Business crashes, health fails, and friends depart, cherished dreams collapse—yet somehow. . .most carry on. Who of us hasn’t thought to ourselves, Well, next year will be better or tomorrow will hold the answer or I’ll feel better next month? All those thoughts are of beyond the bend. So with our creel over our shoulder and our fishing rod in our hands, we press on, push forward, our goal being the fishing hole beyond the bend. It may be a bend of pain, of loss, of disappointment, but we know once we get around it, there lays beyond the bend a glorious pool, a feeder stream, a golden catch.

For the Christian there remains the last curve, the final bend, the ultimate corner. The world calls it death, but the Bible calls it a departure. (2 Timothy 4:6) A life beyond the bend where there will be no more corners and no more curves because we will be living with God. Our journey will be over. Our wandering will be done. Our wading along the winding stream beds of life will end beyond the bend.

3

Star-Studded

By the word of the Lord were the heavens made; And all the host of them by the breath of his mouth.

—Psalm 33:6

I have come to believe that the sky and all it stars are brighter and more brilliant in the country than in the city. Take away manmade lights and manmade illumination, and the star- studded sky will inspire.

Deep in the woods of northern Maine is Alagash Lake. Part of the Alagash Wilderness Waterway, this huge body of water is only accessible by canoe. It is one of the last truly wilderness areas left even in the State of Maine. They won’t even allow you to take soap into the area; my kind of place. I first went into this area with a group of young men from my church in the spring of 1992. We were after lake trout, but I remember best the star studded skies we had every night we were there. Added to the glory of the stars was a full spring moon, and I came home with a creation memory that must be recorded.

God in his infinite wisdom has chosen to communicate with his creatures through various means. His principles and his precepts are not just limited by certain manmade methods. I firmly believe that along with the Scriptures and the Spirit, the eternal Father can also speak to his children through a star-studded sky. David believed in this method of communication for he writes, The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handiwork. Day unto day uttereth speech, night unto night sheweth knowledge. There is no speech nor language, where their voice is not heard. (Psalm 19:1–3) Standing on the lake shore at Sandy Point Campgrounds on Alagash Lake, I heard no voice, but I received a lot of knowledge about my Creator by looking up into His star-studded sky.

As the moonshine and the star shine engulfed me, I thought first of this truth, He tellest the number of the stars; he calleth them all by their names. (Psalm 147:4) Even man in his thousands of years has yet to come up with a number or enough names. Every time man thinks he has a telescope big enough to see the end of the universe, somebody develops a bigger one only to discover more space and more stars. Then I thought of The moon and stars to rule by night: for his mercy endureth for ever. (Psalm 136:9) There is no greater place then a lakeside to learn the lesson of the rule of moon and stars and the depth of God’s mercy. Mercy is not just a daytime grace, but nights are the best time to see God’s grace. Finally, I thought, Praise him, all ye stars of light. (Psalm 148:3) One of the wonders of a star-studded sky is its grip on your emotion to give thanks and praise for a Creator that would create such a wonderful world for you to enjoy. Surrounded by fir, spruce, pine, and water, I rejoiced in heart for the privilege of seeing a star-studded sky over water.

4

Hallelujah Heron

the harvest of the river is her revenue.

—Isaiah 23:3

It was one of those sights you rarely forget if you love the vista of the river.

I was fishing for the Atlantic salmon in B-Pool on the Penobscot. It was a warm spring day with a very blue sky and a very gusty southern wind. I happened to be alone at the time so the sound of the water pouring over the Veazie Dam had totally silenced my world, silenced in the sense that no other sounds could be heard. I could hear nothing else but the roar and rush of thousands of tons of water driving the spring run-off over the dam boards and through the four giant turbines at the side of the dam. Often, however, when one sense is blocked another sense becomes that much more alert. So it happened as I cast my Pink Ent into the bubbling and boiling water of the B-Pool that my eye caught a visitor to my vista.

It was not the visitor I wanted because my eyes were looking for a leaping salmon to enter the pool from the rapids below. It was not a salmon that caught my eye by the small island fifty yards off shore. It was a heron. I am no expert on heron so I couldn’t tell you what specific kind of heron she was, but with her long neck, long legs, and her long, tapered bill, I knew she was an heron, and she was there for the same purpose that I was—fishing, even though our prey was different. I was after the big Atlantic salmon that swam up the Penobscot on their annual trek, and she no doubt was after small bait fish or even a small bass that might venture near shore. She had probably been at the point of the grassy island for a long time before I saw her because I hadn’t noticed her flying in. Wading about slowly, her head was down, and her eyes were focused upon the slightest movement in the still waters.

As my salmon fly drew little interests from the salmon swimming around B-Pool, my interest was drawn even more to this magnificent heron wading gracefully below me. My disappointment in not catching a fish was soon changed to joy when my fishing partner claimed her first fish of the morning. The bill dropped in the blink of an eye, and the retrieval of the head from the water was just as quick. From where I stood it looked like a four-inch bass had become breakfast for my feathered friend. It was as if I could hear a hearty hallelujah echo off the face of the dam. As the lanky heron enjoyed the success of her patience, I thought of how enjoying the success of others is missing from our society today. We are so selfish and self-centered; we have missed the simple pleasure of watching others win. We want so much to be on the platform and to hold the trophy over our head that we forget that there is joy in watching others succeed. We are so competitive that we have forgotten to rejoice with them that do rejoice. (Romans 12:15)

5

Stream Stones

Among the smoother stones of the stream is thy portion; they, they are thy lot.

—Isaiah 57:6

At the time of this devotional, I have recorded in my journal the names of 25 streams I have dipped my feet in. Add to those streams, 23 different brooks and 32 different rivers and you could say I have spent a fair amount of time walking on smooth stones.

One of the perils of brook fishing is the possibility of each step being a watery slip. I have been very fortunate over the years to only have taken a half dozen full falls (the worst was on the rocky shore of Long Beach Island inlet in New Jersey while fishing for mighty bluefish when I hit a slippery rock and tumbled into the bay in the Spring of 2017), but I see now that my God had a lesson for me to understand in my encounters with smooth stones.

I must say at first that smooth stones can be very beautiful. Polished by water and sand, some of these smooth stones are very attractive. I have a few small smooth stones sitting on my shelf in my study (my favorite are the five stones that represent David’s ‘smooth stones’-I Samuel 17:40 I picked off a remote shore on Frenchboro Island off the coast of Maine) which are special treasures picked up or given to me through the years. Each is a tiny history of hardship as wave after wave of current from the stream washed their roughness away. Small smooth stones can’t be shaped in a season or a year. A single pass of spring water can’t create a smooth stone. It is only in the turbulence of the stream and the grinding of the gravel that the finished stone is complete. So it is with life and the man of God, Paul says that God’s plan for us is to be conformed to the image of his Son. (Romans 9:29) That is our portion. Without life’s grinding, polishing, and buffeting, we will never be that smooth stone God wants.

Smooth stones are the end product of a painful process that takes a lifetime. Though the lifetime of a stream stone is longer than our lifetime, the pattern is the same. Any smooth stone from any stream starts out a jagged piece of bedrock from the bottom of a brook. Maybe a heavier rock breaks it free during a spring runoff. Bruised and broken, the stone is battered against the larger stone in the stream bed. A rolling mill of current and sand attacks the ragged rock from every side. Not until it comes to rest in a protected area does it stop falling. At peace, it now is assaulted by the weight and power of the flowing currents. Scores of fishing seasons pass before the smooth surface face begins to emerge, and then years and years more to refine and polish until the stone are completely smooth without any blemishes or broken edges.

The human soul is like that. Bruised and broken by sin, the soul is attacked by a wicked, cruel world. Only when it finds a safe place in Christ does the falling stop. Even then the vile, sinful edges are clearly seen. We are forgiven within, but rugged and ragged without. It is then that the water of the Word begins to chip off the unwanted pieces, and as the years pass the soul and the spirit of the man is polished until the image of Christ shines on its surface.

6

Riverside Reflections

And I saw in a vision, and was by the river.

—Daniel 6:2

What is it about still waters (Psalm 23:2) and the still small voice? (1 Kings 19:12)

I have spent a large percentage of my life near, in, or around water. I love streams, and I love the sea. After starting a devotional series titled Sermonettes from the Seashore (a book I got published in 2019 by Resource Publications) I realized I had just as many freshwater reflections as saltwater remembrances. Not only have the oceans in my life inspired me, but so have the rivers of my life. It was for this reason that I thought I ought to compile a companion set of devotionals for my Sermonettes from the Seashore under the title Riverside Reflections. Instead of sea and surf, tides and terns, I would reflect on brooks, creeks, streams, and rivers, and the many spiritual lessons my Father in heaven has taught me by the riverside while fishing.

I was very young when I heard for the first time the sweet stillness by a stream. I certainly didn’t understand it then, and I am still no expert, but this I know. There is something about a babbling brook and a calm creek that quiets the soul and calms the pulse. More times than not in my hurried world, I have to find still water to really relax. Recently, I discovered it by the seaside, but I first found it by the riverside. In trout fishing trips with my dad (Wendell E Blackstone) to Beaver Brook, and later during salmon fishing trips with my father-in-law (Stacy A. Meister) to the Penobscot River, whether rivers in Maine or rivers in Canada, each has fulfilled a vital place in my recovery from the ravages of modern living.

Still waters have never been places of stagnation for me. Quite the opposite, they have served as wonderful interludes with the still small voice. Why is it I feel closer to God in riverside romps, I know not? Seaside strolls do the same even though I know He is everywhere, city or country. It seems that the pace and the practices of modern living don’t allow for much reflection in the city. To daydream in the city could result in getting run over by a service truck. The only danger of daydreaming by a brook might