RHYTHMS | PRAYER, PRACTICE, PLACE
Vol 4. Issue 12
“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it.”
Norman Maclean
The voices in this issue are three men whose connection with God, people, and place has been discovered in the waters of rivers. They are men with defining perspectives and distinct passions. I am delighted to share their unique work with words with you.
Included in this issue is a Prayer for Before Fly Fishing by Andy Stager, the Practice of Fishing by Matt Thomas, and the River as a sacred Place by Joe Leininger. Our hope is that the wisdom included in this issue brings both insight and delight.
All blessings.
Jared Mackey
P.S. Would you take a moment to share this issue with the fishermen in your life?
PRAYER | BEFORE FLY FISHING
By Andy Stager
Before you pulled us from the dust,
Before there was dust,
You spoke into the primordial stew,
And drew the waters back
To craft dry land.
You spread your expanse above
And pushed rock up and up.
You planned for granite and basalt
To catch and release
Its mammoth snowpack.
You gathered headwaters.
You sent creeks cascading from cliff faces.
You told them to accumulate
Into streams that host bright trout.
I spent the week in town
Three thousand feet below, hand-to-plow.
As you know, it was a mix of doubt and diligence,
My head down, hoping to keep up.
Now I stand on the bank, rod rigged,
Net stuffed in my wading belt,
Taking in the ancient surround—
A whole geological theater,
A stage teeming with living things.
I see a mayfly on the film.
It dries its wings.
I know a cutthroat must be just below,
Eager to feast.
As I bring my own biology, my history,
knee-deep into the stream, I’d like your smile.
It seems ridiculous
To seek a blessing for my silly game.
But I could use a strong tug,
A connection to something
Going on down deep.
A surge of adrenaline,
Of dopamine, then
The serenity of serotonin.
A dumb grin, and a legit fish tale—
A rag I can spin as I’m driving
Down the mountain in the dark.
Something that’ll tickle the wife and kids,
Impress the gents at our corner pub.
A story I don’t have to craft from nothing.
Andy Stager is from Ohio, and has lived in South Carolina, Korea, and Switzerland, and now resides with his family in the West Wash Park neighborhood of Denver, where he is a pastor, writer, and fly fishing guide. With a PhD in divinity and a DMin in the sacred art of writing, he especially enjoys composing and reading poetry and memoir. Andy offers free guided fly fishing experiences for pastors with Pastors Monday.
PRACTICE | FISHING
By Matt Thomas
“I would much rather be standing in a river talking with Jesus than sitting in a pew thinking about fishing.”
My buddy Johnny K was fond of telling anyone who would listen: “I would much rather be standing in a river talking with Jesus than sitting in a pew thinking about fishing.” After three years of fighting like hell, he passed away in the Spring of 2025 from a glioblastoma. I cannot think about fishing, or friends, or rivers without thinking about Johnny K.
Johnny and I talked often about God, second only to fishing. He encountered Jesus later in life, through the love of his daughter, Jesse. We agreed that fly fishing is for the foolish. The degree of difficulty is laughably high, and the odds are rarely in the angler’s favor. Some luck into a lights-out day now and then. When the fish are on the feed, the right flies are in the box, and tight lines prevail. But we are constantly redefining what a “good day” is. The goal post is always moving. Terrible outings shifting instantaneously into the “best day we’ve ever had” when we finally net a fish. More often than any self-respecting angler would care to admit, we do more fishing than catching.
I believe we fools don’t fish for the chance at landing a world-class pig or stacking up numbers. I think we fish because there is a hole in our souls we are trying to sort out. Fishing keeps us both busy enough and quiet enough that we might hear that still small voice. It centers us in ways other outdoor endeavors can’t. It demands we hold many variables in tension all at the same time. Rhythm and chaos. Focus and whimsy. Knowledge and creativity. All those paradoxes may be why the most famous stories of Jesus usually involve a shoreline or a boat.
The best conversations I’ve had with other humans have been in a boat, floating down a western river. This is true of friends and strangers, family and foes. It is a captive audience. There is nowhere to hide. What a gift proximity is! The warts and the talents are on full display for your companions just a few feet away. How we handle disappointment and failure, how we celebrate, how we show gratitude. You can learn a lot about someone, and a lot about yourself, on a 12-mile stretch of water.
When my now 11-year-old son was 6, we went on an overnight fishing trip, just me and him. Boat loaded down with gear, Snickers bars, and root beer, we fished all day. About halfway through the day, we got to talking about God, which seems to happen often in a boat. My son turned around and said, “Dad, I’m ready to follow Jesus.” Caught off guard, I shrugged him off. An hour or so later, with increasing earnestness, he turned around and said, “Dad, I’m serious. I’m ready to follow Jesus. What do I do?” I was getting nervous as my mid-thirties male self at the time was struggling to nail down exactly what I believed that meant, and I couldn’t get my head around a six-year-old boy possibly comprehending the implications and importance of such a path. I shut the conversation down, mumbling, “Maybe when you’re older.” An hour or so later, he set down his fly rod, turned around, and said calmly with a twinkle in his eyes, “Dad, it is time. I’m ready.”
We pulled into the campsite as it was getting dark, ate dinner on the riverbank, and then lay down and looked at the stars. I asked him what he meant when he said he wanted to follow Jesus. He thought for a few seconds before saying, “Well, I know God loves me, and I know Jesus died for me. I’m ready to follow him, and I suppose I’ll figure that part out along the way.” We prayed together, laughed together, and counted shooting stars together. It was one of the best nights of my life.
I have learned quite a bit fishing on western rivers over the years, but not much stacks up with the lesson I learned that night. My skepticism, arrogance, and fear are no match for a good Father. I left that fishing trip with a slightly smaller hole in the soul. Maybe by the time I leave this earth, with enough river miles behind me, it will be half full.
Matt Thomas is the Founder and CEO at Marrow, which invests into small businesses and the humans that make them go. Matt lives with his wife Shannon and their four children in the Mt. Vernon neighborhood in Golden, Colorado.
“River” by Boone Thomas, age 9
River
God is the giver,
He gave us the river,
So don’t fear or shiver
Cause God is the giver,
God’s way goes
Like how the river flows,
He’ll always know,
If your good or bad,
But don’t be down
Don’t be sad,
He’ll forgive you,
He’ll make your life new.
PLACE | RIVER
By Joel Leiniger
“You can never walk into the same river twice because it’s never the same river and you are never the same man.”
I step down into the brisk current of the river, wondering if I will be able to stay upright while the rushing water tries to push me downstream. I’m a year older than last season, and walking on snot-covered bowling balls against the chilling current of spring runoff is not a job for amateurs or old men. Fortunately, my dog and I make it across the river without incident. I shuffle ahead and begin casting flies upstream in pursuit of the wild brown trout that inhabits the river.
The apex of God’s creation has always been a wild mountain river for me. Water crashing downhill against rocks is a symphony to my ears. The freezing cold water pummeling my legs invigorates me, and the visual bombardment of colors, movements, and light paints a masterpiece beyond description. The problems I had moments before vanish when I step into the river. For the next three hours, I am immersed in a fly-fishing universe and the luminous thoughts that inhabit this world.
About half of the rivers in the west are controlled by upstream dams that regulate seasonal flows and maintain the river for its downstream purposes. The Little Laramie is a wild “freestone” river with unregulated flows that range from a docile 10 cubic feet per second (CFS) in the summer to as high as 2,000 CFS during rowdy spring runoffs. When the snowmelt comes from the Snowy Mountain Range that overlooks the valley, chaos ensues with overflowing banks and uprooted trees. But not this year, as low snowpack will limit the flows.
On this trip up the river, we encounter no moose, although signs are abundant on the sandy banks. The patrolling eagles that once viewed the young dog as a dining option are focused today on other prey. Along the banks, beaver signs are everywhere—cut-down trees and new dams. Mink, deer, and owls frequent the area too, but few are visible today as we make our way upstream. I am immersed in a miraculous ecosystem within which I am invisible.
The first dream I can recall was to own a ranch with a river like this, with literally no idea how it could be accomplished. After buying this property, we went to work redoing the barn, fixing up the house, and spending money restoring the river to its original state. It was fun. Expensive. And at times, a burden. The privilege of ownership is often joined by an accompanying weight because things were made to be used and shared rather than compulsively controlled. It was another one of those things that Jesus said that I thought was crazy when I read it as a young man. It seems obvious to me now.
Owning a river? A mountain? Really? The point was never to make it mine but to do what I could to make it better and then hand it over to the next person in line. When you think of it that way, a light-touched ownership can bring life. And so, when we sold a large portion of it last month, I was feeling as much gratitude for what I had experienced as sadness for what I lost. It was time for someone else to step up and do what they thought was best for the land. I had done my part.
When we are younger, we think accumulating things is proof you are winning. Jesus dismisses this notion, saying we were to be stewards rather than owners, something that seems self-evident when you consider the brevity of our lives. Meanwhile, the mountains continue to loom over the valley, and the river continues to flow.
These are all thoughts that churn in my subconscious as I continue walking into the current while throwing flies into the pockets that hold fish. I feel the fatigue in my casting arm and legs as I step out of the river and inhale it for a final time. The sun reflects on the dancing current, the geese are arguing upstream, and cottonwood leaves are twinkling into the stiff westerly breeze while my dog and I share a rare moment of tired contentment as we step up onto the bank.
My heart bursts with gratitude as I release the thing I coveted but was never meant to keep. The lightness in my spirit is noticeable as we make our way home.
Joe Leininger is the founding partner of a private equity business focused on natural resources. He has authored two books and writes a monthly reflection at joeleininger.com.
More rhythms to root your faith in place.
Sacred Place provides a beautiful bi-weekly publication to share the rhythms of a Prayer, Practice, and Place as simple ways to help cultivate love for our neighbors and neighborhoods.
