One June afternoon, just before the heavy rains painted the lake water a deep terracotta, I was pulling in largemouth bass hand over fist. I spent hours on our dock casting towards the sweet spots along the shore. 

Yes, my life as a fisherman was good, and I proceeded to dish out smack every chance I got—to neighbors, friends, but mostly to my husband. I was, after all, the Fishin’ Winner in the ongoing, not-so-pro fishing competition between Matt and me. And a not-so-fair competition, I might add, because while I fished that spring, Matt installed the dock’s electrical system. Although it was all in good fun and he took lots of photos of my catches, in hindsight I became a real “pain-in-the-bass” to listen to. 

Life has this way of humbling us, though, and the afternoon of June 9^th was my day. Matt and I were on the dock—me fishing, of course—and he working on the electrical. As dark clouds rolled in, we decided it was time to get back to the house. But I’d just tied on a new lure, so I opted for one more cast before I helped Matt retrieve his tools from the sprinkles that’d begun. 

My intention was to land the cast below the overhanging bush along the shore, but the lure hung in the bush instead. No problem. I turned my head to protect my eyes and tugged several times. Nothing. The raindrops grew stronger, so I yanked hard, launching that Little George lure into the back of my thigh at light speed. When I finally caught my breath, I looked down and sure enough, one of the barbed hooks was embedded deep in my skin just below my shorts’ hem. Through the now blinding rain, I could see Little George’s orange eye looking up at me from my back side.

“Matt, ya gotta help me. . .”

There was only one thing to do, and we both knew it. I bent over, clenched my teeth, and Matt carefully dug that lure out of my upper thigh. I went from being a “pain-in-the-bass” to having one—or something like that. Guess I deserved it. 

I laughingly told this story to everyone with the same passion I’d dished out fishing smack to, but no one thought it was funny. Most recoiled in shock and winced when they saw the 4-inch diameter, multi-colored bruise. It was ugly and painful, to be sure, but pretty darn funny, considering my previous cockiness. 

The only person who laughed with me about it—besides Matt, of course—was my physical therapist. He couldn’t miss seeing the bruise, and being a fisherman himself, shared similar stories during our session the next week.

Laughter is great medication for the mind, body and spirit. Scientific research shows that it activates the immune system, decreases stress hormones, contributes to pain reduction and accelerates the healing process.  

Proverbs 17:22 states, “A cheerful heart is a good medicine, but a downcast spirit dries up the bones.” 

So go ahead, envision that orange eye staring up at this self-proclaimed fishing pro from my back side, and laugh at me. It’ll do ya’ good!