On the Creek: Finding God in the Quiet Waters

A reflection on patience, presence, and life’s unexpected gifts.

I currently live in a major metropolitan area—Columbus, Ohio. Well, technically Commercial Point, but the distinction is small. I grew up in West Virginia, a state tucked entirely within the Appalachian Mountains. There’s no truly flat land there—at least not a continuous square mile. The landscape is thick with forest and laced with creeks. It was easy to lose yourself in the trees or feel like you’d stepped into another world.

You might think that kind of escape would be hard to find around Columbus. Surprisingly, it isn’t. A quick glance at a map shows rivers—the Olentangy and the Scioto—and countless creeks. While some flow through urban areas, others offer pockets of isolation, just a few hundred yards from roads and neighborhoods.

My favorite is the Big Walnut Creek. I know it well, both upstream and downstream from its confluence in Three Creeks Metro Park. Sometimes I fish right at the confluence, though it can get noisier than I like. There’s something indescribably calming about stepping into its cool waters. You feel the temperature through your waders, and the gentle current presses against you just enough to remind you it’s alive.

Then come the signs of life: minnows darting, birds diving toward the surface, a snake gliding past, or a beaver slapping the water with its tail to announce your presence. In these moments, I’m reminded of Psalm 23:2–3: “He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul.” The creek is a stillness that restores.

Over the years, I’ve collected rods and reels for every scenario—short ones for tight spots among trees, long ones for open stretches of water. But no matter the gear, the best part of fishing the Big Walnut—especially near its confluence—is the unpredictability. You never truly know what you’ve hooked until it’s nearly landed. Sometimes your line snaps. Sometimes the fish throws the lure. Your heart races, and your mind reminds you to stay patient.

One morning, just twenty or thirty yards downstream from the confluence, the creek reminded me why I love it so much. My first hole came up empty. My next cast—a clumsy flick near a downed tree—was hardly promising. Then the water swirled. Something had taken the bait. The fight began.

The power was incredible. I loosened the drag, but the fish pulled hard enough to slide my boots in the mud. When it finally broke the surface, I could hardly believe my eyes: a muskie, thirty-six inches long, flat-faced, bright-eyed, and fierce. I somehow got it over the bank—just barely—and snapped a photo for my son. He didn’t believe me until he saw it.

That single encounter—the “fish of 10,000 casts”—taught me a larger lesson. Life is unpredictable. Some of the best things come when we aren’t even trying. Some battles are hard, and the outcome uncertain—but God’s presence in the quiet moments carries us through. “Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for Him” (Psalm 37:7).

Over the years, I’ve caught all kinds of fish in these waters—smallmouth bass, saugeye, wiper, gar, rock bass. Each fight is different. Each teaches patience, observation, and respect. But the real value is in the quiet moments: standing in the water at dawn, feeling the current, watching the fog lift from the creek, noticing the small details of life. These are moments for reflection, prayer, and gratitude.

Fishing, like life, requires presence. It reminds us to notice beauty, embrace patience, and celebrate the unexpected gifts along the way. We plan, we cast, we hope—and sometimes, God surprises us with a muskie, a moment of clarity, or a quiet pause that restores our soul.

I’ve found that these moments on the creek are also opportunities for gratitude. Life is good. You just have to notice it.