The Catch: On Great Expectations When They Don’t Make Sense

My husband and I were riding home in the dark last night, drinking in that laundry-on-the-line feeling of spring, even though I know in Colorado it won’t last long. (I’m scheduling this post for a day when they’re predicting more snow.) We talked about some happy successes with my new business. I mean, it’s not Africa, but I’m excited about it, I shrugged as we pulled to a stop sign. It’s okay. This doesn’t need to be Africa. It’s a new box; new expectations.

I’m still thinking about his answer, which to his credit, he presented quite gently. He told me about a guy he’d mentored while we were in Uganda who’d repeatedly returned to come and help us there with our projects (we still work with Engineering Ministries International). He loved Uganda, loved the work, had almost put in an application for staff. But, he told my husband, his work in his home country continued to give him incredible connections with people to share the hope he has. And his country was increasingly secular. Dark, even. (I resonate with this. My country changed a great deal in the five and a half years we were gone.) He felt like the need was greater for him to stay.

We’d pulled up to the house now; my husband turned off the ignition. Missionaries in Uganda are everywhere, he said. I think they need them here, too. 

The Catch

In some ways, I’m still waiting here; waiting for God to show me–if He wants–why leaving there was so important. At times I’m tempted to overcommit or to be scouring my days for valuable interactions. I may be guilty of making them more “valuable” than they actually are so I can feel better about myself, despite that even the mundane is valuable in God’s eyes.

Swell of emotion surprised me the other day, leaving my cheeks a little wet. I was reading one of my favorite stories in the Bible: the miraculous catch of fish (Luke 5:1-11). It happens twice, you know. I like even that. It’s like Jesus kind of had a pet miracle, a little inside joke to play on the disciples when they didn’t recognize him after his death.

But we can all resonate with  times when we’ve been doing our best, doing what we know through a long, lonely night, and nothing happens. And then, by just obeying a simple command, doing the same things, suddenly there’s more windfall than we even have capacity to handle.

This story feels precious in my hands right now, like the smooth pink of a shell. Because part of what I also have to grieve about leaving is my own ineffectiveness. Or even more confusing, the ways God did not decide to move despite our pleadings; despite an obvious need. Despite the miracles that did happen around us, discipleship was slow. Helping the poor was slow. Some of my most innovative strategies to intervene in poverty flopped, or fell to corruption or simple selfishness. And perhaps I grieve while reading that story because there is grief to be had. There were some endless, isolated nights with an empty net.

So the irony is not lost on me that somehow, when that particular fishing trip is over, God could bring in a boat-jeopardizing load of fish whenever he chooses. Though I struggle to find passion here, throwing the net over the  other side when it doesn’t make sense to me, I am secretly hoping to have my boat overflow with more fish than I can handle.

The Other Side

I feel this human bond with Peter’s response during Catch #1: Depart from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord. I like it because I can imagine Peter internally rolling his eyes at the (pointedly) inane suggestion to cast your net on the other side of the boat. I’m sure that will make a difference, clearly-not-a-fisherman-Jesus. I like, as this blogger points out, that God humbles us by answering our half-hearted prayers. Our reluctant responses to obey what doesn’t make sense. 

So right now, I am throwing out a net on the other side, watching it gracefully cascade to the water in arcs as I did one evening on the Nile. I am seeking to do “small” things with great love. And I am waiting for what I hope is somehow, inexplicably, a full net.

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