Fishing Buddies: A Spiritual Tale

By Thomas R. Martin

Paul was walking in darkness ever since the death of his mother. He tried escaping the pain by quitting school and running away, leaning heavily on drugs and alcohol. Years later, Paul returns for the funeral of his good friend Peter. He finds himself sitting in his bedroom after the service, looking at his fishing poles and reminiscing about the day he and Peter had met him - the Old Man by the river. He falls asleep, trying to recall the ancient wisdom the Old Man had passed onto him and Peter.
Paul awakes in darkness and heads out to go fishing, hoping to recapture some of the magic of the river. He meets Bill, the owner of his favorite bait shop, already fishing in his favorite hole. Little does either of them know the plans that have been made to help them see the Light.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Oct 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9781982237189

Thomas R. Martin

This is the second book Tom Martin has written about the Spirit we are all a part of. Tom is a retired Captain from a major airline. He continues to passionately seek the Truth, trying to understand Its infinite wisdom, and he loves to share what he has discovered along the way. Tom and his high school sweetheart, love their life on a lake in Minnesota, sharing it with family, good friends, and nature itself.

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Copyright © 2019 Thomas R. Martin.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Balboa Press

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-9822-3717-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-3719-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-3718-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019916544

Balboa Press rev. date:   11/06/2019

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

To The Reader

Alpha

Omega

Alpha

Omega

Alpha

Omega

Alpha

Omega

Alpha

Omega

Alpha

Omega

Alpha

Omega

Alpha

Omega

Alpha

Omega

Alpha

Omega

Alpha

Omega

Group Study Questions

This book is dedicated to the Truth,

and to all those who seek Him.

Our light to Your Light

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A huge amount of gratitude is given to those who had the kindness, and the patience to take time out of their busy lives and give me multiple opportunities for ample feedback. How blessed I am to have people like you in my life!

To my mother Kady, whose enthusiasm in discovering the Truth was contagious, and passed on to me. To my good friends Amy and Eric Kaiser, Patty Lundquist, Betty and Wells McGiffert, Ron Osborne, Jeanne Shermer, and Katie Stevenson for introducing me to my characters and helping me find their story. I am truly grateful for your willingness to indulge all my questions and give me your honest feedback, helping to make this a better story to read! And finally, to that beautiful drum-corps girl, with the special twinkle in her eyes. I am so blessed to call you my wife and be the recipient of the Light shining through you. Thank you for shooting me the Light all these years. I am truly humbled and grateful.

Thank you to all my editors, and to my mother and wife! I love you dearly!

tom

Cover art designed and painted by Cathy Martin.

TO THE READER

As I sit here on the verge of submitting my manuscript, I have decided to include my e-mail address as a way to keep the discussion going, and help the reader with any questions they might have. I don’t have all the answers, but I’ll do my best to respond, and help you find what it is you’re seeking, knowing your search is my search. My hope is that we can walk this path together, deepening our understanding of Whom we are all a part of.

May the peace of God’s love be with you always,

tom

My e-mail address: [e-mail]

It is written:

There is but one Body, one Spirit who is over all, and through all, and in all …

And you and I … are a part of Him.

ALPHA

T he dust cloud followed the rusted-out pickup down the dirt road to the home of his childhood memories. It hung in the air, marking his path through the countryside like a skywriter at an air show. The writing thinned, then wafted over him as he slowed to stop and gaze at a new cross standing in the ditch. The fresh flowers adorning the blond colored wood, were a head-turning marker for a weathered cross standing next to it, which had long since been taken over by the grass. Tears welled up, spilling off his lids, weaving their way down his cheeks and into his lap, as his thoughts carried him away.

First ma … now Socs … how many more crosses gotta be stuck in the ground before they do something? he said, to no one there.

The sleeve of his coat dried his tear-soaked cheeks, as his foot slunk on the gas, coaxing the truck back into action. It delivered him reluctantly to his destination, with the dust as his only companion. Time was meaningless, and in an instant, the brakes were announcing his arrival in a high-pitched squeal. Once again, the dust cloud left Paul to be alone with his thoughts.

‘Still looks the same …’ he thought, taking a long, empty stare at the front door sitting atop the porch steps. But it hadn’t felt the same since she left.

Paul hadn’t seen it since he left home after his mother died. Being an only child, the loss of his mother opened a wound that still bled. Now here he was, some ten years later, looking up at the door he had come home to so many times before. Paul sat there with his head resting upon his hands, which hung from the top of the steering wheel, listening to the engine hum a mechanical lullaby, until the weight of his arms sent pins and needles surging through his fingers.

Ahhhh hell …

He shut off the engine, and scrunched the duffel bag sitting next to him on the passenger seat, sliding it towards him, before stopping to look at it.

Think I’ll leave that here … he said, as he let go of the bag, and leaned into the door with his shoulder. Can only handle so much of Mr. Life-Goes-On.

The door squealed as it swung, and Paul got out one leg at a time. He paused by the side of the truck, digging his elbows into the side rails and rubbing his forehead.

‘Maybe I oughta just hit the road . . . ’

He briefly looked back at the driver’s seat, then pushed away and headed for the front porch. Reaching the base of the steps, he paused again, staring at the blistering paint covering the graying wood.

‘How many times did I come flying off these things headed over to his house …?’

Paul looked two houses over to where his best friend Peter had lived. No matter what time of day Paul shot out the front door to go fishing, Peter was always standing there, ready to go. Tears glazed over his bloodshot eyes, as he pictured his friend waiting for him.

I’m sorry for leaving ya Socs, Paul said, scrunching his eyes closed, trying in vain to stop the flow of tears. I thought you’d always be there waiting for me.

Socs was the nickname Paul had given Peter in high school. Although he was only sixteen, Peter had wisdom far beyond his years. He had been born as an empty page, longing for the words of life to be written upon him. Even at a young age, his mother was amazed at the deepness of his questions. Who’s God Mom? Where do the stars come from? Why did God make all this stuff? She nurtured his desire the best she could, reading books to him that would stretch his imagination. His father’s love for the outdoors instilled an appreciation within Peter for God’s creation – one that deepened every time his father pointed out the haunting beauty in a loon’s song, the majesty in watching an eagle soar, or the awe of staring into the Milky Way on a cloudless night.

It wasn’t long before his mother and father, and even the pastor in their church, could no longer answer Peter’s questions, and he took it upon himself to begin looking in new ways; searching in books, and songs, and poems, and even in the rhythms and patterns of the earth itself. Peter’s classmates had picked up on his journey too, through the deep thoughts he expressed and the questions he asked, and they began calling him Socrates after learning the names of the Greek gods and philosophers. Paul had shortened this to Socs.

Paul’s father had been at the funeral, but he’d come home early, leaving Paul to be alone with his friend. He heard Paul’s truck pull up, and he went to the front door to welcome him home. It was good to see him again. Yet staring through the screen, watching his son cry, brought back all the memories of the day his wife died. He remembered it like it was yesterday; sitting there on the front porch steps, his head hung in his hands, sobbing as he waited to tell his son the news. Paul coming home from school, his walk slowing at the sight of his dad crying, knowing something terrible had happened. Ten years had dulled the pain, but Peter dying in the same place his wife died, reopened the wound. And he prayed it wouldn’t end like it did the last time, with Paul running away.

He stood there awhile; giving his son time to collect himself, before pushing the door open.

How ya doing?

Paul opened his eyes but kept staring at Peter’s house. He didn’t want his father to see him cry but his lurching body was giving it away.

. . . O.K. . .

You going to stay awhile?

Paul shrugged his shoulders. I don’t know … I’m in the middle of a job so … don’t know.

It’d sure be nice if you could stay.

Paul looked up at his father and into his eyes.

There’s a lot of pain here dad. Then he looked back over at Peter’s house, Lot a pain.

I know it hurts son. I still hurt too. But life goes on and you got to go on living your life.

There it was – in record time – that get over it attitude Paul couldn’t stand. The disgust stole his stare from Peter’s house, and pierced it directly into his father’s eyes.

Really dad …? Really? They’re still throwing dirt on Pete’s grave and you start in with that stuff again? I’m supposed to just move on? I know it don’t bother you. Nothing bothers you. But it bothers me.

Paul resented the speed at which his father had gotten over his mother’s death. And hearing another lecture so soon was like dumping gas onto his raging fire.

Paul’s father was a gifted athlete, having made the varsity football team his first year in high school. He was voted captain by his teammates, and he dreamed of playing professionally after college. A scholarship from a school out west seemed to pave the way towards achieving his goals, when everything came crashing down upon him. In his freshman year, Paul’s father had to drop out of school after his own father died suddenly. Being the oldest amongst his many siblings, Paul’s father was now the ‘man of the house,’ and he went home to help his mother support their large family. Most would have been bitter about seeing their dreams going up in smoke. But Paul’s father had a deep love for his family, and taking care of them was just a natural outlet for his love. He was good with cars, and he quickly found work at the local garage, bringing home a paycheck that helped cover the bills his mother couldn’t afford. There wasn’t time to grieve his father’s loss, or his shattered dreams. That’s not to say the What ifs wouldn’t come to him every now and then on a Sunday afternoon in the fall. But knowing he’d helped his brothers and sisters get off to a good start in life, helped to silence his regrets. And this experience with pain at an early age helped him deal with the loss of his wife.

Paul, on the other hand, was stuck on a treadmill of grief – running in a hamster’s wheel of denial and anger and depression that he just couldn’t shake. His dad’s ability to move on only fueled Paul’s rage, making him stare at his father with angry eyes. ‘You never loved her like I did!’ Paul screamed inside his head. ‘Ain’t no way you ever loved her like me.’

Paul’s father went on. I know it’s tough son … only to be interrupted by Paul.

"Do you?