House of Worship

My father was a fisherman. Fishing wasn't his profession. By trade he was a carpenter. But fishing was his passion. My father was a very spiritual man, although he didn't go to church. His place of worship was a purling stream, a bobbing boat on a windy bay, or a wooden house he pulled onto a piece of ice.

As a child I went ice fishing with my father, perhaps once, perhaps ten times, I don't recall, the memories all flow into one reverent experience. My sister and I stand on the shore next to Dad, looking out at a village of icehouses in the distance. We follow the tracks his large boots leave in the snow, across the ice, past other fishermen, to the little wooden house he build and put on runners. He opens the unlocked door and we step into the darkness. Our eyes adjust to the dim interior. Gradually, the glow of daylight filters through a foot of ice to illuminate the three by four foot hole in the floor.

We slide onto the bench next to our father. It reminds me of the pew I sit in on Sundays, wedged between my mother and my brother and sisters. I like this spot much better. In the icehouse I feel closer to God than I do when I sit in the shelter of St. Philip Neri Catholic church. Here God's presence isn't rows and rows away from me on a stage decorated with banners made of felt, it is ten inches below my feet through a hole carved into a piece of ice. I stay a respectful distance from the opening, aware of the power and danger of the frigid lake.

My father's face is lit from below by the pulsing hole. His head is bowed as he gazes into the water. I mimic his actions, rest my elbows on my knees and stare thoughtfully into the void. It is quiet in the icehouse, we talk in whispers so as not to disturb the creatures moving beneath us. We sit side by side and wait for the big one to come into view.

I no longer sit in icehouses, or churches. Sometimes I miss the peacefulness, the feeling of belonging to something larger than myself. but mostly I miss the fisherman sitting by my side. I miss the quiet carpenter who showed me through his actions what it means to be a reverent being.