The hunt

Parenting seemed easy ten years ago. My eldest was eleven; the youngest, three. Out of respect and honor or fear, all four boys followed the directions of their parents in obedience.

My eldest has since graduated from college. Sons two and three are attending college and son four careens down the road of his first full teen year bouncing off the guardrails. We've slapped two little girls on the tail end of our family bringing the total progeny to six.

The adventures of the last half-dozen years have convinced me that I know little about fatherhood. Like the chaos that must be felt by an offensive guard in the National Football League every time the ball is snapped, I attempt to hold passionately to the blocking assignments that God has given me, but more and more it seems the quarterback gets sacked and we're now third and nineteen. Next play I vow to myself that I will try and hold my man and make way for the ball carrier.

I don't understand the overall gameplan, but I know the One who does. And so I keep blocking.

As the ache for independence begins to pound in the heart of the teenager, more and more their pathway diverges from that of their parents. Sometimes that brings rapturous thrill. Other times we dwell in silent and grievous agony.

Sometimes the roads come back together. This weekend was such a time.

My younger three sons and I ventured south to hunt whitetail deer. I have a dear ("deer"?) friend whose father-in-law has cultivated his ranch into prime deer hunting real estate. The latter, Mr. Jack, has graciously offered his son-in-law, KC, the opportunity to invite some friends to hunt the ranch. We have been richly, richly blessed to enjoy several such opportunities.

This weekend, we knew the greatest success we had ever known. Three of us took 8-point bucks, all of reasonable caliber. For that reason, I've no doubt my sons will savor the weekend.

My greatest joy was being on the same road with them once again. It was sitting alongside my son as he spied his 8-point, a deer I didn't see, and fell it with a single shot. It was seeing my son ride back in the truck with his beast in the back. I got to witness my son, the one who was skunked, rejoice in the success of his father's first deer and in the success of his brothers' kills. It was watching my son dress the gnarliest gut-shot I've seen (not that I've seen many) with the skill of a surgeon. It was watching two of my sons process three deer in an afternoon with knives flying like butchers with another son faithfully feeding the meat grinder.

Since driving home Sunday afternoon, our paths have again begun to once again diverge. I will savor the weekend that my three younger sons stood alongside me on the same road. Like God's glorious rainbow, three 8-point racks hanging side-by-side will jog my all-to-forgetful memory.

(Click the picks to get the up-close-and-personal)














"My son, if your heart is wise, my heart too will be glad."

Proverbs 23:15