A HINT OF SOMETHING MORE

A hint of autumn has begun to touch the edges of the day. A lingering chill greets morning and dusk has quickened its step. Remembered deer ghosting through woods I spend far too little time in, spark the hope that fuels a hunter’s heart.

This year, my oldest child has been begging to spend more time in the field. This year, I plan to accommodate her wishes more often. Yet, between sports and school and so many more activities, I know without serious effort and diligence autumn may sneak into winter while all these pressing moments spent hurrying and worrying lay siege to the really important moments of life. 

Precious time stolen, forgotten, wasted? 

What is time worth if it is not appreciated. If it is not shared with those you love, with The One who is love. 

Relationships and experiences make us who we are. I am ready to experience the deer woods once again. I am ready to share them with my daughter again. And I wonder if she will hear the sound of the creek lightly tumbling its way toward wherever God intended it to go. I wonder if she will hear it just as background noise the way I used to. I wonder if she will desire to explore, to ask questions, and to listen for the truth. I wonder if she will be drawn to the science of it and I hope she will. 

But I also hope she will understand that though science can tell us what a creek is, how it works, and most of the why, it cannot adequately explain the way the sound of the creek on a cool autumn morning reminds you of hope. 

I pray that if she comes looking for deer or doves or other game, she will find so much more.

ACTION

After hanging a scouting camera near a salt lick, I gave out a cluck on my mouth call. With only a week left in the season, I expected to hear the busy silence of the woods in return. When a gobble blasted from down below the creek, I knew the game was on.

As much as I tried, I had no chance of getting that tom to cross the creek and climb up the hill where I sat with my back against a knotty old oak. But, I have to wonder if sitting with my back against an old tree clucking and waiting actually constituted effort. 

I have to wonder if sitting around waiting for God to do something for me or to me or even through me actually constitutes effort? Is it effort that He wants? As I sit clucking, waiting for the turkey to come to me, I am reminded of the way I sometimes feel during prayer. I do lots of clucking and wonder why God never seems to get any closer. 

Ancient words, forever new, have the answers: “Faith without works is dead.” “Whatever you do unto them, you do unto me.”

The answers are there repeating themselves in my thoughts, in my heart, and yet I sit there clucking and waiting. Every now and then I hear something or see something and I know He is near. Hope rises. Then I return to clucking and waiting. 

I fear the turkey will see me if I slip down the hill and over the creek. I fear it will slip away. 

What do I risk if I quit clucking and waiting and act? 

What do I risk if I don’t?

BREATH

A moment without thought.

Here, then gone.

Here, then gone.

A rhythm unnoticed. 

When will be the last?

He who knows does not tell.

Here, then gone.

Here, then gone.

What to do with mine?

LOST

A stiff wind blew over the hill carrying unseen dust particles like millions fleeing the vast expanse of grassy hills and meadows. Darkening clouds rolled overhead as if clawing to keep up with the wind which crossed the prairie as if it were in a hurry to escape. Grass the color of golden wheat bowed down like a population whipped into supplication.

This forceful wind was not uncommon and normally Eric rarely noticed it. He could take the wind. He could wipe the dust from his dry lips. He could spend hours in those conditions. But now they were like a constant reminder of where he found himself.

When Eric had finally realized it, he scribbled it into the dry dirt not really know why. Maybe he needed to accept it. Maybe he needed to hear it in his head. He stared at the message he had left. He stared at it in horror. He stared at it in shame. 

I AM LOST

How did he get there? Why had he walked away from the path?

A tear filled the corner of his right eye as he tried to remember what his father had told him almost two years ago.

"If you ever get lost," his dad had said. "Don't panic. Take a moment. Take a breath. Ask for help.”

Ask who? He wondered.

Eric missed his dad.

The words he had scribbled inspired him to leave a larger message. He stared at the new word he had created by lining up whitish rocks in the forms of letters. When he was done, the word spanned five feet across the hillside. He stared at it and he began to cry. It read HELP.

Even as he built it, he realized it was a word nobody else would read. He could not explain why he did it. But staring at it now, he understood how helpless he really was. And he wondered, years from now, if anybody came across it, would they even care who made it?

Ever since his dad left, nobody seemed to care--not even mom. At her best, she would sit and ignore him--at her worst, she would scream and curse. It made it hard to blame his father, the way she was now. The boy sometimes wondered if she had always been that way. But a memory of her holding him or gently wiping his tears reminded him that she had endured pain and had suffered because of his father -- the man he could not bring himself to hate. Her memories of that man were tainted in a way Eric's never would be. 

Still, his father had left. For Eric, that did not breed anger or depression. For him, it brought mostly questions which often led to feelings of rejection. The boy, to his own discouragement, forgave his father more easily than he forgave his mother. He had left. She had stayed. Yet, he often found himself angry with her and even disliking her. What kind of son did that make him?

And now, here he was, on the side of a grassy hill, in a place his father had introduced him to. He realized then, that his father had never really taught him how to get home. The vastness and sameness of the rolling hills bewildered the boy. 

That morning, he had set out walking before first light with the shotgun his father had given him for his twelfth birthday. He walked without purpose and without considering where his feet led him. He just walked. 

Shortly after first light, fifteen sand grouse rose ahead of him. Unprepared, he shouldered his 20-gauge far too late. But, the birds had landed on the next hill, so he charged after them giving no more attention to the self-pitying thoughts that often consumed the quiet moments. 

The grouse flushed two more times before he could get off a shot, but his father's abandonment had left him with an unrelenting desire to never give up. So he pressed on and when the upland birds flushed a third time, his lead pellets hit one. Unfortunately, he had not hit it well. He had wounded it. Running after the fleet-footed creature, he quickly felt exhaustion gaining ground. He chased the bird over one hill before losing it on the other side. After an hour of searching for any sign of it, he knew he had no choice but to quit. 

He had failed. He crumpled to the ground and wanted to weep. 

He remained there, with a blade of grass tickling the back of his neck, for a few minutes before looking up and realizing he had no idea where he was. His father had once instructed him to find the old, barely distinguishable wagon tracks he insisted were from the Oregon trail—that trail always led back to the county road. Sometimes, when the light was just right and they were standing on top of a hill, they could see the tracks through the bottom of the shallow but massive valley. Eric had run away from that valley and through at least three smaller ones while chasing the grouse. Now, he was not even sure which way the valley was. His father had never taught him how to get back to the trail if he could not see it.

He hiked over two hills and back three more before collapsing to the ground from a combination of physical and emotional exhaustion. Eric had often prided himself on his endurance and unwillingness to surrender. But at that moment, fear and shame and hopelessness overwhelmed him. If he continued to walk aimlessly, he might only become more lost. These hills could go on for miles and miles without a road or any hint of civilization. It was that seemingly ultimate freedom that drew him toward them. Now, he began to see that untempered freedom could lead to a vast and lonely prison that was impossible to escape.

In that kind of loneliness, with that kind of fear and guilt, there was only one place to turn. He looked up into the still dark clouds, and for the first time since he was a small child, he prayed. 

“God, I do not know where I am. I do not know where I am going. I’m not even sure how I got here. But, I am so lost. I am sorry. Please, forgive me.”

Those were the only words he dared to speak to a God he had never truly felt close to until that moment. Then, he lowered his eyes and he wept. Before long, fatigue overcame him and he drifted off to sleep.

Eric had no idea how long he had slept, but when he opened his eyes, the dark shadow of the clouds had given way to sunshine and the sky radiated in an azure blue with only hints of gray at the edge of the horizon.

When he pushed himself up with his hand, he spotted a pronghorn antelope staring at him from across the small valley at the top of a steep hill. Boy and beast stared at each other for nearly a minute. Then, the pronghorn turned and trotted over the crest.

As he sat there considering his options, it struck him that the fear and guilt and shame had subdued. They were still there, but they no longer demanded his focus. There was something else now, something he had not remembered. Peace.

He could sit there, maybe build a fire under one of the bluff edges and wait for someone who would, most likely, never come. Or he could get up and move forward and try to rediscover the path he had first set out on. Within moments, he made up his mind to act, but he just could not decide which way to go. 

Standing now, he noticed movement back to the top of the high hill. It was the pronghorn again, its bright coat reflecting the sun as if signaling with a mirror. The hike would be long and dusk was just beginning to threatening the day, but Eric took the antelope’s reappearance as a sign. 

Eric climbed to where he had last seen the antelope. From there, he could see for miles even in the dimming light. Then, off in the distance, he spotted a herd of nearly twenty pronghorns streaking toward the horizon, a rising cloud of dust dissipating slowly into the cooling air. Just beyond them, he saw hope. He saw the trail.

It was so far into the distance, he could barely be sure it was not a mirage. It would be a painstaking journey through many hills and valleys to reach it, but he could now see it and when he did step back onto it he would strive to stay the course until safely finding his destination.

FALLEN

He opened his eyes. At least he thought he did. The darkness, though, proved an inescapable flood. 

The sound of nearby footsteps on dry leaves was the last thing he heard before he passed out and surrendered to the black of instant nothingness. 

Later, he had no idea how much later, he opened his eyes again and a brightness burned into his mind. He tried to lift his arm to block it, but nothing happened. After a few moments of near blindness, his vision softened at the edges where he saw long, thin, dark fingers as if they were reaching down for him. He seemed to be lying down. But where? 

He could not remember.

Breathing in from his nose, it felt as if a man were stepping on his chest. He smelled dirt and maybe cedar. He tried to turn his head, but instead, the darkness once again began to close in around his limited vision. Fear engulfed him. It was a fear like nothing he had ever experienced. It was deep and overpowering, yet lacked any sense of physical symptoms. 

Then the blackness returned. This time it lasted and it did not deprive him of thought. Confusion and terror dominated the images in his head. A squirrel with fangs standing in a pool of dark crimson blood. A red-hot iron rod searing the base of his spine. Children he did not recognize, but who seemed familiar, weeping at the edge of a muddy pond. 

The intensity of it jolted him awake. This time, he could see clearly. This time, he could remember. 

He stared at a tree. Seventeen feet straight up, he saw the hang-on hunting stand attached to it. He had sat in that stand dozens of times and remembered thanking God over and over for His creation every time a deer crossed below or a short-eared owl perched in the nearby oak. 

When he realized what had happened, he panicked. He tried to roll over. He tried to push himself up. He tried to turn his head. A dull pain seemed to probe from the back of his neck to his brain, but he could not move. 

He screamed, but he did not believe any sound came out. Even if it had there would be no one around to hear it. Something scampered through the leaves from nearby. 

That morning, he had walked to his stand in the dark and climbed the hang-on steps excited for what promised to be a cool autumn day with a gentle north breeze during the peak of the rut. The deer would be moving and he had been looking forward to being present with his bow when they did.  He had been full of hope that morning. 

Then he remembered his jacket catching on one of the steps. He remembered his foot slipping and then his head slamming into the top step as he tried to catch himself. He did not remember letting go. He did not remember falling. He did not remember hitting the ground.

His phone. He had to reach his phone to call for help. To call his wife and let her know what happened. His hand did not move. 

After realizing he could not move any of his muscles, he began to sob. It did not make sense. He was a husband. A father. A colleague. He told himself it was not real. He was just stunned. Maybe even still passed out—dreaming. He could not be paralyzed. This fate—if it were his fate—might be worse than death. For him and for his family. He would never hunt again. He would never feel the touch of his wife’s hand in his. He would never give another piggy back ride. He told himself had mostly been a good man. Sure, he made some mistakes, but he did not deserve this. Nobody did. 

His family would have to feed him, bathe him, do everything for him. What kind of life would that be for them? They did not deserve this. How could God allow this to happen? Why not just let him die.

A pain shot through is back as if he was being run through by a sword and he passed from consciousness. 

This time his dreams were vivid and almost coherent. The squirrel scrambled through the leaves, found an acorn and popped it into its cheek. The children were laughing. The pond was clear. His back was pain free. It was bright as if a thin layer of snow covered everything, yet the warmth was too soothing for winter. He was standing and seemed to be waiting for someone. Then he felt a presence and turned around but saw nothing—everything was gone. The squirrel, the kids, the pond, even the squirrel was gone. 

“Hear my words.” It was as if it had been whispered directly in his ear. At that moment, he awoke again. 

He still could not feel his arms or legs. Even the shooting pain had disappeared. Then he heard the voice again. This time it seemed to come from within him and from outside of him. It was more than a whisper. It was clear and penetrating. “I Am with you.” Then, after a pause, “I Am in you.”

For a moment, he felt at peace. He felt loved.

Then the fear returned. This time, the intensity of it seemed subdued. This time it seemed endurable as if there was an underlying reassurance that his fall was not meaningless or maybe it was more meaningless than he realized. 

His fall.  

Why?

Flashes of his life jumped through thoughts. Pride, lust, anger, sloth, envy. These were the sins that consumed most of his life and he hardly even realized it until now. His pride blinded his ability to see his failing. It was there, lying helpless on the ground, where he realized how far he had actually fallen. 

“Hear my Words.” 

Give to the man who begs from you…as we forgive those…love your enemies…

Familiar words he had heard or read so many times had never had so much meaning.

Give. Forgive. Love.

As he saw his life, he saw self-absorption. He was not the man he had convinced himself he was. And now lying helpless on the cold, hard ground, he finally realized how little he understood and how much he needed. He silently begged for forgiveness. 

The vibrating cell phone in his pocket pushed him from a peacefulness he had transcended into. A new kind of hope strengthened his focus. With little effort, he reached to answer the call and his muscles did not reject his intentions. He was grateful for another chance--no mater what that chance looked like.

So he was found. He was rescued. Then with help and lots of prayer and a great deal of pain, he eventually recovered from his fall. 

His life would never the same. And in time, he became thankful for that.

A YESTERDAY MANY YEARS PAST

I sit alone reflecting upon a yesterday many years past. A yesterday filled with the possibility of a tomorrow not yet known. A yesterday at a small farm with a man whose protection, guidance, and adoration endured without appreciation from the boy lucky enough to stand beside him. A yesterday with a man I knew not nearly well enough. A man who seemed to have answers even when he did not, and who embraced the responsibility to give and sometimes withhold. With a man I loved and respected and trusted. I sit alone reflecting upon a yesterday hunting doves with my father. 

How little I knew. How little I know. Time proves its fleetness. It condemns me; my wantonness, my selfishness, my sloth, my apathy. It condemns me for allowing it to slip away without a struggle. Even the tomorrow of that yesterday is gone and with it that man I knew not nearly well enough, his body buried on a prairie hill, his tombstone a reminder of time’s unforgiving honesty. 

Caring too long only about my wants and my desires convinced my heart to fear the place my father now rests. But as I sit alone pondering that yesterday I took for granted, it seems I miss the place he now belongs to. It seems fear is but a memory of my own ignorance. An ignorance of love and truth.

That yesterday, the doves flew sparingly and we spent the moment without words or even action. We spent the moment well. And like that man whose body we buried on a prairie hill, that moment lives on. That yesterday of many years past continues to shape today as it whispers of tomorrow’s promise.  

Like a shifting image in the morning cloud, we come and we go, but love, truly understood, lives in eternity. 

So as I sit alone reflecting on that yesterday so long ago, I wait hopeful for the mourning dove, hopeful for the moment that is forever lived well. Hopeful for love, truly understood. 

Dick Cabela October 8, 1936 - February 17, 2014

Happy Birthday, Dad

TRANSFORMATION

“And concerning the resurrection of the dead, have you not read what was said to you by God, ‘I am the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob’? He is not the God of the dead but of the living.”

Matthew 22: 31-32

Dew-soaked native grass saturated my boots as well as the bottom half of my pant legs with each step. I passed the small pond, stopping only for a moment to watch a few frogs dive for safety. But the promise of a new hunting season propelled me to slip in and out of the woods with haste. I wanted to check the trail cameras one last time even though I knew the lingering heat of summer would postpone my first bow hunt of the year beyond opening day. Still, the anticipation of autumn’s promises renewed the hope of what I might encounter in the woods.

Halfway to the first camera, while I watched the creek bottom for signs of deer activity, I stepped face-first into a spider web. After spitting and swiping and spinning to free myself of that creepy feeling a web leaves on your face, I chuckled. If a deer had been watching me, I am sure the hilarity of a man dancing with a spider (or the horror of it) would have sent the quadruped bolting for its nearest sanctuary.

After composing myself, I continued along the trail to the camera, which I had strategically placed on the other side of a marshy area requiring me to slosh through ten steps of muck and water. At one point, my boot stuck and I almost tripped into the mud. That is when a pair of white butterflies lifted from an unseen perch and effortlessly fluttered somewhere into the nearby branches where leaves twittered just enough to give the light above them a sparkle like that of a long lost treasure.

Later, after hanging a stand, I thought about the butterflies and the dew and the breeze. I thought about mortality and even questioned what it is my faith tells me about it. In the end, I have to believe in that which I cannot see. That or I do not believe at all. It prompted me to ask a question—a question we all have to face sooner or later. A question we sanitize and do everything we can to avoid.

“What is death?”

I suppose it is healthy that we do not dwell on it, but is it healthy to never question? To never explore why we are her? Ultimately, that is the question. A question we may never know the full answer to in this life. But the butterfly did not bring me to that question. It brought me to the question of death. Not why, but what?

Is it simply the end, as one of my atheist friends believes? Is it a quick ticket to Heaven in some sort of spirit form, but only for believers in Jesus Christ? Or is it a transformation like that of sublimation of H20 or the metamorphosis of a caterpillar or a frog? Or is it something reserved especially for the creature created in the image of God— something more like the Transfiguration. I know what my faith teaches me and I do believe it, but if we never question, how will we ever find the truth? God gave us things He gave no other creature, but He also gave us some of the same qualities of those other creatures. In doing so, maybe He has left us a few tiny clues to what He has planned.  

I am no theologian. But when I see a butterfly, when I see a cloud, when I see a tadpole, I see a process instituted by the ultimate scientist and the ultimate artist—the ultimate Creator.

I walked away from the woods that day with more questions than answers. Maybe it is better that way. God loves us enough to allow us the awe of discovery, the wonder of curiosity, and the beauty of mystery. He loves us enough to let us ask questions and to accept or reject the answers we do or do not find.

The next time I venture into those woods, I will be carrying a bow and will have a different focus. If it is God’s will, a buck will pass below my tree stand. I imagine the questions of death and life and purpose will probably provoke my curiosity once again. Until then, I will try to embrace the day given to me. It is good to seek answers, but true belief and true faith allow us to trust that God knows what He is doing and that whatever we do not fully understand or whatever trials we may encounter do ultimately have a purpose. If believing that allows us to see the glory of God in a butterfly and strengthens our faith, then maybe the mystery and fear of death will transform into the trust and hope which can bring peace to our hearts.

I guess there is only one way I will ever know for sure what death is. And that is okay. I do know I was once mostly dead inside and that God's grace is transforming. I also know when that grace begins to transform, we truly begin to live.