A Vet for Very Small Fish?
A little boy’s prayer, a tiny fish and fighting the urge to bargain with God.
By Shekinah Jacob
He was a tiny fish, about half the size of my little finger, his eyes as small as a full stop, a mouth the size of an ellipsis in font size 14.
Not even his colour singled him out for attention; it almost seemed as if God had taken a break from the iridescent peacock and the psychedelic parrot to pour the dregs of the paint bowl over him. This fish would never have made it to the top 100 most amazing animals, being neither bold nor beautiful. In fact, he had been quite the opposite of bold, having allowed himself to be cornered in the fish tank, while he was viciously bitten by an aggressive tiger fish.
My five-year-old son cried out in horror at this drama of the survival of the fittest, and his little sister tugged at my sleeve until I unwillingly went to investigate. The fish lay on its side, unmoving, in the last stages of death.
Tupperware tomb
The kids begged me to do something, and although I knew it was quite futile, I fished out his lacerated body and put him into a small Tupperware box filled with water. As I returned to the kitchen, my son raced past me into the bedroom, and since he was born with a voice set permanently a few decibels above the rest of mankind, I overheard his little bellow of a prayer: “God, please heal the fish. It’s hurt. You can make it better, so please heal it. In Jesus’ name I pray, amen.” Then he bounced out of the room, his face shining through two layers of grime and announced, “I asked Jesus to heal the fish, Mama. He will do that, right?”
I willed my mouth to say “Yes.” And then I flinched in anticipatory pain, fearing the first lash of disappointment that would cut through his young faith, one that resembled a blade of grass stretching all of its tender green length out towards the sun. I prayed half-heartedly, wishing I could bargain with God, barter one of my requests so I could buy an answered prayer for my son. “He’s too young, Lord. Give him a few more years to find his feet and grow the roots that will hold in a storm. Heal that fish, because I know that if you choose to do it, you can.”
Barrage of questions
And so we went to bed, but not a minute too soon, because I had to endure a series of questions such as “Is there a vet for very small fish and can we take him there? Why does this city not have a vet for very small fish? Can we move to a city that has a vet for very small fish?”
By the time my husband got home from work I had to communicate in sign language in an attempt to give my mouth a rest. Just before I fell asleep I fought the urge to run down to the pet store, climb in through a window, steal a similar fish and replace the one that I was sure would have succumbed to its injuries by now. I lay back instead and mentally reorganised the theology of disappointment with God, in the language of toddlers.
In the morning, I heard the joyous screaming of two children. “He’s been healed, Mama! Jesus healed the fish, just like I asked him to! He’s healed! He’s healed!”
I went down to see the miracle swimming away in the Tupperware, the picture of valour with two dark red spots on his head and one on his body, the scars of battle. I managed not to cry. “Yes,” I said as matter-of-factly as I could. “Jesus healed him, just as you asked.”
The jigsaw of faith
All through that day I thought about the mystery of faith. How the answered prayers are like pieces of a jigsaw that we begin in the toddler years, and as we fill them in over time, we begin to get an inkling that the picture forming is the face of Jesus. Who he is. And how the unanswered cries seem to form the bigger, more crucial pieces of this puzzle, telling us that God is a lion, not a genie in a bottle. He’s a wild king who is in love with us. And he will risk denying us in order that we may take our gaze from his hands to his face, in order that we may experience the joy of receiving and giving unconditional love. “Not for what you give, but for who you are.”
“And who are You, really?” we might demand in moments of great pain. “And where are you?” we might holler in fright when he stays silent, when the wild king seems to have left us alone in the forest and we can’t find our way back.
And then a young man might remember a story of a nondescript fish that he once prayed over. A woman may remember how God sent her an eagle out of a bright blue sky when she was a little girl blurry-eyed with tears. A picture emerges, and so we wait. In faith. Knowing that even as we walk through the valley of death, who God is never changes.
About Shekinah:
Shekinah is a drama queen who lives in Chennai, India, with her knight (not always in shining armour because it tends to get too hot to wear metal clothing) and their two toddlers who make her laugh, and love her on bad hair days. Her idea of heaven is coffee, a good conversation, and cupcakes with zero calories. She likes writing about her family because it’s a good way to preserve the memories, and more enjoyable than taking photographs.
Image credit: EXISTENCE © Sara Robinson | Dreamstime.com
