Its not the place of an eight-year-old boy to change that tradition. Grace. Oh, God..who art rich in forgiveness, grant that we may hold fast..the good things we receive from Thee.

The sons of a minister, the boys eventually part company when Norman moves east to attend college, leaving his rebellious brother to find trouble back home.

When Norman finally returns, the siblings resume their fishing outings, and assess both where theyve been and where theyre going.

Then he said Someday, when youre ready..you might tell our family story.

Only then will you understand what happened..and why.

In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly-fishing.

We lived at the junction of great trout rivers in Missoula, Montana..where Indians still appeared out of the wilderness.

And though it is true that one day a week was given over wholly to religion..even then he told us about Christs disciples being fishermen.

And we were left to assume, as my younger brother Paul and I did..that all first-class fishermen on the Sea of Galilee were fly-fishermen..and that John, the favourite, was a dry fly-fisherman.

But the poor with Christ..are princes and kings of the earth.

In the afternoon, we would walk with him while he unwound between services.

He almost always chose a path along the Big Blackfoot..which we considered our family river.

But even before that, beneath the rocks..are the words of God.

Listen. And if Paul and I listened very carefully all our lives..we might hear those words.

Even so, Paul and I probably received as many hours instruction in fly-fishing..as we did on all other spiritual matters.

As a Presbyterian, my father believed that man by nature was a damned mess..and only by picking up Gods rhythms could we regain power and beauty.

Ten. To him, all good things, trout as well as eternal salv ation, come by grace.

Norman So my brother and I learned to cast Presbyterian style..on a metronome.

He began each session with the same instruction.

Casting is an art..that is performed on a four-count rhythm between ten oclock and two oclock.

Each weekday, while my father worked on his Sunday sermon..I attended the school of the Reverend Maclean.

He taught nothing but reading and writing..and, being a Scot, believed that the art of writing lay in thrift.

Half as long. So while my friends spent their days at Missoula Elementary, I stayed home..and learned to write the American language.

Again..half as long.

Good. Now throw it away.

Norman Norman Wait for your brother However, there was a balance to my fathers system.

Every afternoon, I was set free, untutored and untouched till supper..to learn on my own the natural side of Gods order.

And there could be no better place to learn than the Montana of my youth.

It was a world with dew still on it..more touched by wonder and possibility than any I have since known.

Goddamn it Open up the door Hey What the hell is going on - Hey, where are you guys going - Chicken Go on, move over.

Get him Get him You sissy Come on Come on Lets see some blood here Go on Lots of blood Go on Paul was different.

Its not the place of an eight-year-old boy to change that tradition.

Grace. Oh, God..who art rich in forgiveness, grant that we may hold fast..the good things we receive from Thee.

A River Runs Through It Script Pdf