Uncle Bud let me use his old rifle whenever
I wanted. These days, giving a kid free use of a rifle would end in seriously unpleasant Child-Services intervention,
but in the countryside of the 1950's, it was no big deal.
Folks just naturally assumed a normal ten-year old had enough sense not to shoot himself, or anyone else.
I loved that old rifle. Every part of it was polished smooth by more than a half-century of use. It was a 22-cal. breech-loading, single-shot relic. Every time a round was fired, you had to break it open to insert a new cartridge.
I didn't mind the slowness of loading. I didn't mind having only one shot at a time either. I thought those limitations would force me to make the most of - one-chance, one-shot.
Hundreds of innocent tin-cans fell to my deadly aim.
When hunters in the family asked what I'd bagged lately, I would tell them I only shot tin-cans. They didn't make a fuss about it. They didn't have to.
I was already tagged as an odd kid. I wasn't interested in sports. I wasn't interested in internal-combustion engines. Worse yet, I spent an inordinate amount of time reading books.
There was no reason for my lack of interest in hunting to be surprising.
I did think about hunting.
Many of the heroes I read about in books were great hunters. I admired their skill. I wanted to be like them, except I didn't like the killing part. I knew they had to kill animals to provide food and protection for their families.
Maybe I would do the same if were in their position. Except I wasn't in their position.
There was no need for me to be a hunter, and,
I didn't want to kill animals. Still, there seemed to me some ineffable honor in being a great hunter.
I decided to try.
Uncle Bud had regular 22 cartridges as well as birdseed cartridges. I put a handful of the birdseed cartridges in my pocket, took the old rifle, and headed for my "blind". I knew about blinds from articles I'd read in Cousin Duane's Argosy magazines.
The blind I chose was the loading chute attached
to the barn. The chute slanted down to the barn. Two sides were enclosed by wood slats, the front was open. Inside the chute, I could see, but not be seen.
I waited, unseen, silent, and lethal.
A Mourning Dove landed on a power line about thirty feet in front of me. I held my breath and gently squeezed the trigger. The next moments were frozen
in time. The bird fell, flopping violently on the ground, spraying blood that seemed to hang in the air like crimson mist.
I was stunned by a rush of remorse that felt like
I was shot.
Dazed, I took the gun back to the farmhouse.
I stuffed a cardboard box with rags and ran to the bleeding bird as fast as I could. I put him in the box. He was breathing, but not moving.
I wrapped the rags around him and took the box to the haymow. I sat next to him in the hay, wondering what
I could do to save his life
I put a shallow dish of water and cracked corn in his box. When I checked on him next day his eyes were open. He still couldn't move. I dipped my finger in the water and put it to his bill. He swallowed a little. He wouldn't take any of the cracked corn.
That night I prayed to God. I prayed God would help the Mourning Dove. I prayed God would forgive me for the evil I had done. That night I knew in a way I'd never known before that God listened to my prayer.
I was no longer the same after that. Mom always made sure I went to church and Bible school. I learned the words. I didn't really understand. Now I did.
In the weeks that followed the bird got better.
One day he was better enough to fly away. I was redeemed, though I knew I didn't deserve it.
God had revealed Himself to me. It was the beginning of my pilgrimage.
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By late adolescence the Glory faded.
The distractions of the world dulled my personal sense of God. I wasn't secularized, just abstracted. I read about other religions: Hindu, Muslim, Buddhism, Lakota Sioux, Voodoo, Zen, and whatever else I came across.
My interests in these religions was academic.
My interest in Christianity wasn't much more.
My interests during most of my twenties, thirties, and forties, was pursuit of success, and the many pleasures of this world. I didn't forget about the miracle of the dove, but the miracle was challenged by my discovery that birds are known to heal faster than other animals.
Knowing that fact didn't change my conviction that the healing of my dove, was a miracle.
It was just one fact of worldly convictions that argued against Godly convictions.
There were endless others. Learning, getting, gaining, and having fun was more important in those years than they should have been.
Worldly attractions drove me more than spiritual concerns. I did many good things; I think. I also did many things I shouldn't have done.
I convinced myself that the good things I did outweighed the bad.
Few friends thought otherwise.
There are many excuses for bad behavior. "You only did what you had to do. Everybody does that. Hard work deserves a little fun. It's not wrong if you think it's right". Secularized culture is always eager to justify what is really selfish, uncaring, and thoughtless.
Satan is a subtle deceiver. He whispers sophisticated suggestions that any rational person would believe were their own.
I did a lot of good during those years. I've probably exaggerated the bad, but bad is still bad.
There is an alluring belief that there are big sins and little sins. The Bible says sin is sin. I wish I had done only good.
Nonetheless, I enjoyed life. There was so much to achieve and explore, so many shinny things that called for my attention.
I was becoming more and more secularized without quite realizing it. Most folks do the same.
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Something changed in my mid-forties.
The process was incremental. It took me a while
to notice.
When conversations turned to religion I increasingly found myself defending the Christian position.
This surprised people who knew me. They thought of me as a committed rationalist. What was I doing talking about God, and Good, and Evil.
It surprised me too.
A friend of mine, a devout Catholic, finally asked, "Are you a Christian"? I answered, with only slight hesitation, "Yes. I am. Thank you".
I had nearly forgotten God. God had not forgotten me. From that day on I’ve no doubt.
God and Heaven are real; the World isn't. We must suffer the World until God takes us home to Himself, for reasons only He knows.
I don't say that from faith. I say that from direct knowledge given me by the Grace of God.
That's this pilgrim's progress.