My father always led us in silent prayer before we dropped our lines into the water.
“Remember, boys, you musn’t pray for God to help you catch fish,” he’d admonish, “for that is a misuse of Holy Supplication akin to praying for wealth or vainglory. Besides, the fish will laugh at you.”
Once I asked him what we should pray for. He only smiled, the green of his eyes matching the rushing freshet below us.
He touched my shoulder, turned and made his way down the rocks.
I guess to him an answer was unnecessary.
I never did find out.