Nothing happens to any man which he is not formed my nature to bear. The same thing happens to another, and either because he does not see that they have happened, or because he would show great spirit, he is firm and remains unharmed.” – Meditations, Book V.14

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Marcus Aurelius wrote extensively about living in harmony with the universe, about controlling your mind, seeing the details, understanding perspective, and accepting what comes.

It sounds good, read off of a page, a translation centuries old. It resonates well between the ears. Makes sense. Then we put the book down, pick up our notebook of things to do, turn on our email, turn on the news, pick up our phone, and within a mere moment all intent of sound reasoning is past, until next time we open the book.

We choose to live life out of tune, out of step. We force the path, force the pace. We are so efficient at filling our fleeting minutes with so many activities and worries that, ironically, the days pass like hours and our attempt to capture everything results in our actually enjoying nothing. And so we go.

Until we don’t.

We pulled up to the National Forest gate on the road leading to the stream that the biologist told me held more brook trout than any stream in the region. There was a truck already at the gate. A truck with New Jersey plates. A quick peak in the back window revealed rod cases. Unreal. How did some guy from New Jersey hear about the best brookie stream in SW Virginia? I was annoyed. I had missed nearly the entire trout season this year due to other obligations, and the one evening I get to fish…

As I stood there pondering other nearby streams and imagining what license plates we would encounter there, I saw him. Red sweatshirt, shorts, fly rod, and an old fishing club hat with license pinned on the back, wondering back down the Forest Service Road.

I leaned against the truck and opened a beer. Might as well see how the fishing was. I gave him a wave and a smile so he wouldn’t think he was walking into an ambush, and asked him how the fishing was – and how did you find this stream?

His name was Doug. A married couple from West Virginia he just met had fished this stream the day before and told him about it. Seriously? Is this on Facebook? Doug said it fished well. Nice stream.

He had only been in town a couple of days. Had come down to help his disabled sister move into a new house. Why she had chosen this quiet corner of Virginia, he did not understand. But he brought his fly rod, and his red sweatshirt. He wears the red sweatshirt so others can find him if he doesn’t come in off the stream. He travels with his fly rod because he is fortunate enough to know his streams are numbered.

Doug has cancer. A twenty year battle drawing to a close. Sixty five years of age. No spleen. One kidney. It’s in his bones. It’s a little bit everywhere. But he feels good every morning, until a little after lunch. So he goes fishing. He said he hopes it happens out there, along a stream, with the trout. Not in a hospital bed. He said he knows the Lord as his Savior and that God has been good to him. He got out of the hospital in time to walk his daughter down the aisle. He now has a grandchild. He just spent the morning catching wild trout among the rhododendrons. Now he was going to go have lunch with his wife.

Doug apologized for taking our spot. I was ashamed at my thoughts. We talked for about twenty minutes. Standing there, listening to a guy talk about his death as though it is a coming tax season, just thankful he got to have another nice morning on his feat and the water against his legs. He put the six and half foot Hardy in the bed of his truck. We shook hands. He drove down the road.

We found another stream, caught a few trout. At one point late in the evening, after climbing over yet another massive rock, I sat down and said I was tired, and this slow fishing wasn’t worth getting hurt three weeks before an antelope hunt.

The next afternoon I fell off a ladder while working on the barn. Something in the knee popped. As I lay there, I asked out-loud “why”? On the drive to the ER, I asked “why”? I closed my eyes and prayed and asked “why”?

There must be something I am supposed to learn. Some lesson God has been talking with me about, but I haven’t been listening.

Then I remembered. Doug. He never brought up “why”. He wasn’t bitter. He didn’t feel shorted. He was thankful.

Then I remembered the words. The words I so often read, then quickly forget.

Fish-on Doug. Fight the good fight. And when you get there, go find those trout streams in Heaven. I have family on those streams waiting. And when I see that red sweatshirt coming down the road, I’ll know who it is.