To Catch a Fish

The sun’s light peaked through the stained glass windows of Saint Neot’s, the twin fishes gleaming brightly. Father Michael Dravin stood for a moment, watching the illumination. That window in particular had grown on him in the last three years he had been here.

When he first arrived, he didn’t understand why there was a church named after the patron saint of fish in a city whose closest body of water was thirty miles away. St. Neot’s was small, and an older building with a graying congregation. There was talk about closing the church, but the bishop decided to save it. So Father Michael was sent, and instructed to be a “fisher of men”.

He didn’t know how to do that, but his years as a military chaplain gave him discipline, which he applied to his new post. He learned everything he could about St. Neot, the 8th century hermit, and his miracles. Then he went to work, trying to make his little church a beacon for the neighborhood. The Lenten fish frys became legendary, he put in a sizable fish pond in the back of the church, and pushed for young Catholic groups to use the church and space to meet.

Those three years of hard work meant that St. Neot’s was no longer a failing church, but a net that brought Catholics to worship from many miles around. It was a sanctuary of peace, a place you could shut out the noise of the world and find God in the flowing waters.

Which was very necessary, as the world outside St. Neot’s had grown colder. The streets were harder, the sin ever more present, and the kindness drained out. Father Michael heard gun shots every week, sirens every night, and the cries from the distressed every day. It took much to minister to his catch, so he appreciated this time of each day.

Michael had his daily ritual of closing the church. Not that it was closed, but the transition from day to night was a process that he did without fail. He first said his rosary in the front row. Then he asked God for guidance on the next day. Then he snuffed the candles that didn’t need to burn all night. He then checked with Mrs. Rosen, who always came in as the candles were being put out, to pray for her great grand daughter, who suffered from cystic fibrosis.

Mrs. Rosen appreciated having Michael pray with her, and sometimes they would go across the street to Sal’s and grab a tea or coffee. After that when there was an evening event or a parishioner who needed Michael, he would attend to that. Otherwise, he found himself at least for a few moments outside by the fish pond.

Father Michael couldn’t let himself spend too much time staring at the window. He needed to get moving along with the closing. Tomorrow is July 31st, St. Neot’s feast day. After the morning Mass, there was going to be a carnival and celebration. It was the second annual Neot’s Catch and this year the bishop was attending. He was going to be very busy tomorrow, and wanted to get to bed early to be ready for it all.

He took his spot at the front pew, knelt and took out his rosary. The church was quiet and empty, and he cleared his mind of distractions. He took a deep breath, and began.

He made it halfway through the second decade when the world intruded. Pop. Pop. Pop. The gun shots violated his sanctuary, even happening what he hoped were blocks away. He closed his eyes and emptied his mind once more. Just when he steadied himself, the world came in again. POP. POP.

Two more gunshots, sounding a little closer. A bit of annoyance rose in Father Michael throat. Sometimes it wasn’t easy to do what needed doing, but he would persevere. He stretched his arms behind him, inhaled and exhaled a deep breath, and resumed. The world would need to wait. There weren’t even sirens yet.

He made it to the third mystery when he heard the church door open. Mrs. Rosen must be early. Or he was running late. He wouldn’t rush, as she would wait for him. He listened for her footsteps on the stone floor, her soles clicking on the flagstones as she came down the aisle. She must have gotten new shoes, since it sounded a little heavier than she usually did.

He was reciting the second Hail Mary when he felt a strange sensation on the back of his head, cold and rigid. “Don’t you fucking move man, or I’m gonna kill you.”

Of all the things Father Michael had envisioned happening in his life, this never made the list. He stopped praying, finding that he didn’t have the piety of the saints in that moment and able to keep the world out with a gun held to his head.

The man’s voice cracked a bit before he spit out words, “Are you here by yourself, or is anyone coming?”

“I’m here alone. One of my parishioners is on her way here.”

“What? Why is someone coming?”

“She comes everyday to pray for her great grand daughter. I’m Father Michael. What is your name?” He sounded much calmer than he felt, with almost every fiber of his being wanting to run. Something told him that he shouldn’t, that he needed to be here, at this moment. He made up his mind to listen to that.

“Don’t turn around, or I’ll shoot you. Already shot three people today, what’s one more?”

“My God, what have you done? Will they live? Each life is sacred, one more is the world.”

He heard a derisive snort behind him, “Very funny. If your God is there they won’t be. You, me, that old bitty that is on her way here. None of us mean anything. What place is this anyway?”

A distant siren began, and slowly crept closer. “This is Saint Neot’s.”

“Saint Not’s? What kind of name is that?”

Michael’s knees started to hurt. A reminder of his time in the desert, but he normally wouldn’t complain. But talking to his man while kneeling before him wasn’t going to get him out of this. “I’m happy to tell you, but could I please sit? You can still point the gun at me, but I ask for mercy. A war injury is acting up.”

The gun man snorted again. “Mercy? You got to be kidding. There is no mercy in the world. But I guess. Don’t look back at me.”

Father Michael whispered, “Thank you Jesus,” and then sat back on the pew. He put his rosary in his pocket, and folded his hands in his lap. “Thank you as well. Could I have your name? You know mine, its only fair that I know yours.”

He scoffed, “Fair. Fairness is like mercy, just some bullshit,” he groaned and relented, “You can call me Zale.”

“It is my pleasure to meet you Zale. That is an interesting name you have.”

“I have no fucking idea what it means. My mother was a moron.”

Michael couldn’t help himself recoil a bit. There was so much anger in the man’s voice. But even with that, he heard him sit down behind him, the gun still pressed against his skull. “I promised you a story. Saint Neot was a monk and hermit who lived in Cornwall England in the 9th century. He has several miracles associated with him, and his feast day is tomorrow. He is the patron saint of fish…”

Zale violently pressed the gun into Michael’s head. “FISH! WHAT BULLSHIT IS THIS?! He felt spittle strike his exposed neck.

“I’m sorry that you feel that way. You can talk to me, something is truly bothering you. Its obviously eating you up,” those sirens grew louder and louder, “and you need some to listen to your story. Tell me, please. You can keep the gun on me.” It took everything he had to say those words as calmly as he could. He didn’t need to be a priest to know that something deeply was wrong with Zale, as such a reaction to piscine creatures should never elicit such furious backlash.

Zale didn’t pull the trigger, and Michael could hear his panicked breaths as he held his life in his hands. “Why would you want to hear it? What do you care about me? You are just trying not to die.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “That's true, I don’t want to die. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t care. Part of my calling is to be a fisher of men, and I take that very seriously. Even for someone as in pain as you are.”

“If I tell you, promise me you wont laugh.”

For a second time today, he heard something he never would have expected. “Of course not. Unless you tell me a joke.”

“A fish ruined my life.”

“This must be some kind of a story.”

“Its not. Ten years ago, me and my family took a vacation to the beach. Angler’s Beach. Me, my mom, my dad and my brother Delmar. It was the best time. On the last day, I challenged Delmar to a race. Out to the buoy and back. He was a senior, and he was my hero.”

“That's normal. I raced my brothers, but never in swimming.”

“Delmar was so much faster than me normally, but for some reason he slowed down at the buoy and let me race past him. I just finished my intermediate swim lessons not two months before and I think Delmar wanted me to show them off. I kicked water at him as I moved past, and he shook his fist in the air, threatening to beat me to the finish,” Zale’s voice lowered and cracked as he spoke.

“What happened next?”

“I heard that stupid bastard scream, sobs punctuated each word, “and I turned my head around. Delmar was in a fountain of red water, and yelling for me to get to shore. I saw the tip of its nose, its jaws clamping around my brother’s chest, as it pulled him under. Next thing I remember is my mom screaming over me as I lay in the wet sand.”

Father Michael let him cry, not interrupting him as the sirens reached the front door of the church.

“My mother blamed me for challenging Delmar to the race. My father said nothing. The cops said later that they believed it was a great white, a giant fish. They never got Delmar back.”

“Zale, it wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes it was. Not two months later my father shot himself, with this gun. It was Delmar’s 18th birthday present. I wasn’t going to let the cops keep it.”

“I understand. Now I know why you don’t like fish. But I don’t understand something. Why are you shooting people today?”

Zale pulled the gun off Father Michael’s head, “Because they needed it. They owed me or got in my way. My mom’s passed out all the time, and I need to get the rent paid. We are about on the street. All the other men in my family are dead, so I got to step up.”

“Why didn’t you ask for help? We are here for the poor. You don’t have to be Catholic. There are other churches as well. There are many options before reaching for a gun.”

“You don’t understand.”

Michael turned around. The shot didn’t come. Behind him, a young man not older that 17 sat there. A filthy black hoodie covered his head, with bloodshot blue eyes peering out. He slumped against the back of the pew, holding his pistol loosely in his lap.

“I know I don’t. I want to understand. But that isn’t why you are here. You are here because you chose to come here. You chose to shoot those people. You are why I am still alive. Those are things that you are able to control. Whether someone gets eaten by a shark isn’t.”

Zale slouched further. “And what should I do now?”

Michael scratched his chin, “Come with me,” he stood up and motioned for Zale to follow him. “I want to show you something.”

He started to walk towards the altar, and he heard Zale stand up, and his shoes click on the floor as he jogged to catch up. They went through the back of the church, and out into the rear where the fish pond was. He sat down on the stone bench that lay next to it. There was enough space for two, but Zale stood behind him. “What’s this?”

Father Michael looked over the pond. “One of miracles St. Neot is the endless fish pond. God placed three fish in a pond, and an angel told him that he could eat one fish each day but no more. He did, and the pond always had three fish in it.”

“That doesn’t seem impressive.”

“Well, there came a day that St. Neot fell ill. His servant panicked, and took two fish. He boiled one and grilled the other. When he brought these fish to Neot, he told his servant to return the fish immediately. He did, and when the fish touched the water, life returned to them, and they swam freely. On the following day, one fish was taken, and Neot was cured instantly.”

“Did all of that happen?”

Father Michael turned back to Zale. “I believe so. Its why I put in this pond back here. Now I don’t eat them, and I bought the first few fish from the pet store. But I hear God’s voice listening to the fish. Its calming. I think that you need something quiet, a place where you don’t blame yourself for your brother’s death.”

“I’m not worthy of that.”

Father Michael shook his head. “No. None of us are. That’s not why God brings us miracles. Your life is a miracle. Did you ever wonder why your brother let you catch up?”

“No.”

“I remember all of the races I had with my brothers. They never let me win. Not once. When I did, it was because I worked hard to do so.”

“Delmar never let me win, except for that day.”

Father Michael finally understood. “Why do you think he did, on that day?”

Zale thought for a moment, and his arm lowered as it dawned on him. “Because he saw the fish.”

Michael spotted the officers emerging from the church behind Zale, and stood up. “Now you know. Have you even thought about that day recently?”

Zale shook his head. “I hadn’t, for years, until that moment that you told me about Not.”

“And now you are back into the pond. You can revive your life. But first, put down the gun.”

Zale tensed and swung around, leveling his gun at the police. They screamed freeze, but Father Michael moved, placing himself between Zale and them.

“Get out of the way Father. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Then don’t. Put it down. I’m not going to let you go Zale. But you have to trust in the Lord. That is why he shows us miracles. To let us know he loves us. He gave Neot miracles. He gave you a miracle.”

Through tears, he winced. “He didn’t give me a miracle. He took my brother.”

Father Michael stepped toward him, and knelt down in the grass. “Your life is the miracle. I’m begging you, don’t throw it away. I want you to place your own fish in His pond. When you are able, you can renew that miracle. Put down the gun. Your brother doesn’t live in it.”

Zale knelt down and dropped the gun next to him. The detectives rushed forward, and placed Zale in arrest. They led him away, tears now filling Michael’s eyes.

***

It was July 31st, and the fifth annual Neot’s Catch was in full swing. The street in from the church was packed with fair goers and people breaking bread with their neighbors. Michael watched the dunk tank claim another victim, when he spotted a face he knew.

There was a bit more facial hair, and his blue eyes held a lot less pain. “Father Michael! Do you recognize me?”

“Of course Zale. You are most welcome. Is that a fish you have there?”

“Yes Father. I owe your pond a fish, and I made sure to pick a good one.”

“Lets go put it in.”

They walked back to the pond. A group of children were feeding them, giggling and pointing at the fish eating the chunks of bread. They reached the shore, and Zale knelt down and opened the bag. He tilted it into the water, and the silver fish swam into the pond.

One of the girls came up to him, “That’s a big one. He must like the rocks.”

Zale turned to her and smiled. “Yes, he does. He is a saxicoline fish.”

She scrunched her nose. “What does that mean?”

“It means you are right. He likes the rocks. Just like an older brother. Tough like a rock, but always trying to protect you.”

“My brother’s name is Barney. Does your fish have a name?”

Father Michael watched the new fish swim with new life, and gobble up a chunk of bread thrown into the pond. Zale smiled, and placed his hand on her shoulder, “His name is Delmar.”