“Nice cast padre! I can see this ain’t your first barbeque!”

I started to ask John-John what we were fishing for when my rod flinched.

“Set the hook!” he yelled. I jerked the rod quickly and it responded with a severe bow as the fish took the bait.

“I think I got one!”

“Better believe it padre! Don’t give ’im any slack but don’t be greedy. Let ’im take some line if he wants a little.”

I kept the rod tip high and began to reel in the fish. Several times I heard the reel’s drag mechanism hum frantically as the fish tried to run and took line with him. When he’d stop, I’d reel like a mad man. Slowly but surely, I was winning. For every five feet he’d run, I’d reel in ten feet of line.

John-John moved down closer to the water’s edge, the long-handled landing net in hand, his legs spread to brace himself on the ragged rocks. “That’s it padre. Patience. You got ’im!” The fish’s back broke the surface, and shook hard one last time trying to throw the hook. “A couple more feet,” John-John said. “That’s a nice big redfish! Well done padre!”

“A redfish on a red shrimp,” I said, and we both laughed like what I’d said was hilarious. You had to be there, or have been at the same kind of moment to understand the exhilaration. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of casting, hooking and landing -- there’s no doubt in my mind why Jesus chose it as a metaphor for winning new people to the way.

I hadn’t realized it as I fought the fish, but fishing at the park is a spectator sport. As John-John lifted the net full of dripping, thrashing redfish from the water, applause broke out from above on the boardwalk. “Nice big red,” a man said, drawing a few “uh-huhs!” and “oh yeas!” in agreement. But the audience quickly dispersed. They were all eager to get their lines back in the water. One woman who looked vaguely familiar remained. John-John had tossed “Whitey” out toward the same deep hole and I was reaching back into the bait bucket when she called my name.

“Pastor Dietrich?“

I released the shrimp in my hand and looked up at her, shielding my eyes from the setting sun. “Yes. Do I know you?”

“I’ve been to your church a few times,” she said. “Sometimes with my husband -- tall, lanky guy? I always enjoy your message.”

“Thank you,” I said. She was tall and lanky herself. Wide shoulders, late 40s maybe. Handsome but a little more rough hewn than most of our congregation. She was wearing a loose-fitting pair of men’s Dickey’s and a tee shirt, and I remembered how I noticed them in church, wearing work clothes, clean but no effort to dress up. No judgment. It just stood out. It was coming back to me now. He’d come just once I think, and her two or three more times. But not in months. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Can I come down?”

I glanced at John-John and he nodded his approval and began to quickly reel in his bait. “Sure, come on down. Just be careful.”

She worked her way down the embankment. When she joined us on our rocky platform, John-John took a seat close by.

“My husband died recently,” she began. I knew better than to say anything shallow, so just held my eyes on hers and let her continue. “He was a little older than me and had been sick a good while. Still, the end came suddenly. He had kept promising me he’d get baptized ‘cause when I was little, the preacher at my church used to say if you weren’t baptized you couldn’t go on to heaven when you cross over.”

“Well,” I said. “That’s just not true. People used to say that, but we know now that God doesn‘t work that way. It’s not our place to tell God who can or can’t be saved. You can have peace about that. What is your name sister?”

“Mary.”

“Mary. A beautiful name and as you know, a name special to God and to Jesus. Was your husband a good man?”

“A very gentle man,” she said. “He might of drank a little too much, but he was a good man. Never abusive to me or anyone.”

“Would you like me to pray with you that God will give you peace about this?”

“That would be nice pastor but, you see, I quit going to church steady when I was maybe 10 years old. Kinda got in some trouble … and … I don’t want to go into all that. The thing is, my church didn’t baptize babies so I never did get around to being baptized myself. I’d just feel better if I was, after the way I worried about Ben -- my husband.”

I certainly didn’t want to explain my situation with the church and found myself acting as if I still had access, asking her if she’d like to schedule a time to do it in the sanctuary. She had other ideas.

“Actually, Pastor Dietrich, I don’t want to put it off any longer. I mean, we have water right here -- lots of it. Do you think we could do it right now?”

John-John had been sitting quietly, listening, but now he was on his feet, not even waiting for my answer, craning his head up toward the anglers on the boardwalk. “We’re gonna have us a baptism!” he called out. “Right here in this ol’ river!”

“Is that what you want?” I asked Mary.

She nodded yes. John-John took her hand. “C’mon pastor,” he said, “there’s a little sandy spot down here where y’all can wade right in. I’ve done it myself before!”

We followed him gingerly along the rocks to the sandy spur of river beach. Above us a curious gathering began forming. Up and down the boardwalk lines were pulled in, rods and reels put at rest in favor of this unusual event.

“You can take off your shoes and wade in,” John-John said. “You won’t find no oyster shells, nothing sharp. But I wouldn’t go out much past knee deep.”

We rolled up our pant legs and I asked, “Are you ready Mary?”

She said yes and we started into the river. When the water reached above our knees, I stopped and knelt in the sand, taking her hands and bringing her down to her knees with me. We remained like that for long moments, holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes. Up above I heard a woman begin to hum the tune of Holy Ground, and as if an invisible hand had formed a choir, others joined in on the melody and a large black man in a dirty white tee shirt began to sing, “We are standing on holy ground …” As if on cue, two women with lilting voices came in, “… and I know that there are angels all around …” At that moment I was sure they were right: this surely was Holy Ground -- the choir now in full voice, swaying side to side, some with hands lifted to heaven; and the sun, piercing the western tree line to drape a lustrous glow over the entire scene. Surely Holy Ground. And in Mary’s eyes, cleansing tears.

I turned her to the side and began lowering her backwards to the water. With one hand securely under her neck I stopped when her hair reached into the river but her face remained above the water line. I looked into her joyful face and said in a loud voice, “Surely you are a most favored daughter of God and of our redeemer Jesus Christ. May God‘s spirit live in you, with you and through you forever and ever. Amen.” I whispered to her “close your eyes” and slowly lowered her into the salty water three times, bringing her back up into the evening air each time as I cried out, “I baptize you in the name of the father … and of the son … and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

As if planned, the amen came just as the Holy Ground chorus finished, replaced by a rousing round of applause mixed with “amens!” and “hallelujahs!” Mary and I stood and faced our “congregation,” both of us smiling and crying at the same time. I put my hand on her shoulder and lifted my voice once more, saying, “Surely our sister Mary is God’s gracious daughter. In her God is well pleased.” I turned to her and added, “May God’s light shine through you, and may God’s love go with you from here to eternity. Amen.”

Mary and I hugged, holding each other a long time, neither of us in any hurry to let go. The witnesses began to drift back to their fishing; I could hear some still humming Holy Ground. John-John took the lead again as we crossed back over the rocks to our fishing spot. Mary thanked me, adding she was going home to change into some dry clothes. As she ascended the river bank she turned back to me and said, “You know pastor, what I said about my husband Ben drinking too much? Well it sorta goes for me too. I’m gonna try and do better with that now.”

“That would be good Mary,” I said. “But whatever you do, God’s blessing is with you rain or shine.”

She nodded and continued up the slope. John-John asked, “Should we go back to fishin’ padre? I mean fishin’ for the swimmin’ kind?” Before the baptism he had dropped his baited hook into the shrimp bucket and when he pulled it up, “Whitey” was still alive and kicking.

“Well, look at this,” he said. “I guess we gotta go back to fishin’ now. A shrimp this strong deserves a chance to achieve his purpose in life.”

“Don’t we all,” I said.