I sit in stillness, listening to the sounds of the forest as it comes forth from its slumber. I watch as the creatures live out their daily routines as an orchestrated symphony of activity. All of this is meant to give glory to the God who created them. How do I not consider where is God’s grace in this moment?
There’s something special about the campfire. I absolutely love the feeling of a campfire at the end of a successful day of hunting. I may be completely exhausted from packing meat or butchering, but it doesn’t matter. It’s extra special when I have someone to share it with, to tell stories with and laugh around
Sometimes balancing hunting and home life makes me want to completely throw my hands up in the air and just not do any of them. Going out to actually do anything on my own can be so guilt-laden that I’ve often cancelled trips just to not have the guilt anymore.
We have all been there. It’s the end of the season and we are eating tag soup. It might have been the weather, work or family needs, or maybe we blew the chance of a lifetime. In some cases, we didn’t see deer at all. It happens to hunters everywhere. The light at the end of the tunnel is next season.
For the first time in too long, I took out my headphones and began to pray. The evening breeze cooled my soaked shirt, causing a chill to rip through my body. Then I broke. Matthew 28:20 seemed to thunder through my mind like a shotgun blast. “I am with you always.”
There are few things more mind-numbing than doing a lot of work to prepare for a hunt only to go without any expectation of being successful. Why would we ever approach something as promise-filled as God’s word and expect to never be changed?
The man who taught me to deer hunt and fish was very busy raising a family. But he somehow always found time for us to spend many weekends a year in field and on the stream.
My heart skipped a beat when a turkey gobbled what sounded like he was behind me. I rolled to my left side attempting to be ready for the bird I heard but could not see.
For weeks the weather had been perfectly cool, the migration right on time, and our host Heath Whitmore had even been sending us pictures of mallards and pintails killed just one week before our arrival.Surely God would bless this endeavor with full limits, perfectly framed kill shots and fellowship overflowing from pit blinds. Right?
Blessed is the Man Whose Quiver is Full! Guest post from Brian Turner.