GRATITUDE

The other day I was watching my young son playing indoor baseball. He pitched in the game and did well. He had a nice hit into right center field. He fielded the ball well. Most of all, he had fun. It gave me great pleasure to watch him succeed, to do well and to give himself fully to the moment he was in. As his father, my focus centered on my son, but I glanced around at the other parents in the bleachers. Many of them watched their sons with that same raptured stare that I figured was on my face at times. It gave us great pleasure to watch our children because we love them. Because we are their dads and moms.

                So what does this have to do with hunting or with God? Well, a few days later, I found myself sitting in the frigid wind waiting for a deer to walk by. I was shivering and wiggling my toes trying to keep them warm when I thought about my boy playing ball. I thought about how I enjoyed that moment almost as much as he did simply because he was my child.  I had also seen him miss a few pitches and swing at a high ball and I saw the disappointment on his face when he made a bad throw to first. In those moments, I felt for him. It’s just baseball isn’t it? I’m not sure it is.

                As I sat there waiting, hoping that a buck might slip into the open I wondered or maybe realized God was watching me with a father’s love in a similar way in which we watch our children. I wondered if he allowed me to be a dad so I could get a tiny glimpse of how He felt about me. Baseball matters. Hunting matters. Every moment matters because God is watching us with pure love. He wants us to live in the moment. He feels our disappointment. His love aches when we hurt ourselves with sin. For a moment, I felt a deep sense of regret for the too many times I had disappointed Our Father. Then, I realized that He still loved me, the way I would love my child no matter what. I realized that to know you are loved is to know peace.

                I did not see a deer that day, but I realized how grateful I should have been for the moment. How grateful we should be for each moment. So on this Thanksgiving Day, I am grateful for my family. I am grateful that Our Father loves us in every moment. I am grateful He loves us so much that He gave His only Son, that He gave Himself. I am grateful that love requires sacrifice, because it is in sacrifices big and small that we can begin to discover how much we are really loved.


Happy Thanksgiving

A TINY SEED

During the third hour of shivering in sub-zero degree wind chills, a flock of sparrows landed in a nearby tree. I had been watching two squirrels chase each other up and down those leafless branches an hour earlier. I watched the squirrels, but failed to really see the tree until the sparrows sat perched in its gnarly branches calling into the frigid winter afternoon. I had not seen a deer, but the tree suddenly intrigued me.

What came to me was not something I did not already know. It was not particularly profound, but it was exactly what I needed at the moment. It was like reading a familiar Bible passage for the tenth time and it suddenly speaks so plainly and directly to you that it is like you are reading it for the first time.

I stared at the big black walnut tree and then glanced around at all the other trees--some of them black walnuts, some of them other species. At a quick glance they all look alike, but a mere quick inspection reveals how unique each one of them is. My first thought was the amazing creativity of each one. I noticed each one had knots and different imperfections. I noticed some of them had broken branches and a few were toppled over.

I realized how each tree as it grows develops at a different pace, undergoes different hardships, and has to battle the elements in slightly different ways. I marveled that each one of these creations started from a single seed that sprouted roots. Those roots then discovered their way into the earth's foundation. I realized that the roots of each individual tree must be strong and solidified in good soil to withstand the wind and the storms and the harsh winters in order to come back stronger the next spring. Then, if the tree continues to grow and mature maybe it can produce a seed that, with help, may find the right soil and the right conditions and someday sprout a root which may find a solid foundation. Then after many springs and winters it may one day rise to great heights where birds and squirrels may find rest.

I did eventually see a deer that day. It passed beneath the big black walnut tree then passed within five steps of my location--a makeshift blind inside shallow ditch. After I sat in awe of one of God's other marvelous creatures, my focus returned to the walnut tree. I noticed its knots and its imperfections and its broken branches and its low branches that been cut off to open a shooting lane. Maybe it was in just those imperfections that God considered the tree perfect and unique.

For a moment, as I stared I wondered if I was looking more at a mirror than at a tree. And I wondered if God not only loved me despite my imperfections but because of them.  I wondered if He allowed the winter  and the wind and the storms to help shape my imperfections precisely because He loves me. And I realized that even if I may do my best to break away from His soil or shudder when a bird comes to find rest, that He still loves me and He will allow me to grow and maybe someday even  allow me to plant one of His seeds.

Despite the sub-zero wind chills of that afternoon, I felt warm.

YESTERDAY'S WHISPERS

“Where are all the villagers?” I asked.

“They left,” Nick said. “A man was killed by a lion and it is a bad omen to stay in a village where that happened.”

I stared at the eerie scene and tried to picture a man being dragged away from these grass huts by a lion. Did he scream? Did the lion enter his hut? It would have been easy. There were no doors and the huts were smaller than most backyard sheds back home. I could not even imagine it.

There were ten to twelve huts in all built by straw and sticks and placed with a fifteen to twenty yard radius between them. They were the color of bare oak trees in winter. We had seen three other similar villages that week. All of them were active with singing and smiling and running children who rushed toward us and were so grateful for a simple piece of candy and the meat our hunting would supply to them. Some of the women stared at us with what appeared distrust, but most smiled and waved. The trackers and skinners and other camp staff, men I had come to respect and trust in a short few days, lived in these villages. But not that one. An emptiness you could almost grasp but never understand filled that place.

“Where did they go?” I asked.

Nick spoke briefly with the trackers for a few moments, then turned and looked back toward the village. “This was a very tragic story,” he said. “The villagers have very few possessions and are always prepared to leave at a moments notice. But this man who was killed was married and his wife was then considered cursed as well. She was not allowed to go with the villagers. She stayed in her husband's hut and the lion came back.” Nick’s voice wavered. He had been a hard man. He had fought in the Rhodesian War and had lost more than he could bring himself to discuss but he had a genuine love for the Zambia he now called home and the people who lived there.

“So that’s it?" I asked. "A man is killed by a lion and then his wife is condemned to the same fate?”

“The authorities were eventually informed, but it is a twenty-five hour drive to here from the nearest town. They sent out a truck full of men with machine guns who killed a few lions and called it taken care of. The whole thing is tragic." Nick paused for a moment before adding, "It is Africa.”

That scene had taken place during my first trip to Africa fifteen years ago. I had gone there as a hunter and to have an adventure. I had been even more naïve about the world than I am now. We left that abandoned village and I continued on with that unmatched adventure. I did not even say a prayer that day. And it would be quite some time before I would even try to hear God beyond the thoughts of me. I was not even asking the difficult questions about suffering and love. 

I experienced some truly amazing things in Zambia during those three weeks and I remember them all, but as I sit here it is that moment, when I was staring at dust blowing ghost stories through a place time had not invaded that seems most imprinted in my thoughts these fifteen years later. I did not know it then, but God was speaking to me. I do not pretend to know what He was saying, but I believe a part of it was—“Wake up! Listen. You are not the center of the world."

Maybe now He is reminding me that He has always been there whispering and waiting for me to recognize His voice. Maybe someday I will understand better the message of the whispers permeating all the moments of our lives: "I Am here. You are loved and it will be okay."

Why are we so afraid to listen?