Done
I'm glad it's over. No more scent wash. No more poring over what the barometric pressure is going to be doing the next time I can go out. No more going through possible shots and angles over and over in my head. No more fretting because every good hunting day is nixed by another conflict. No more wrestling with whether I've got my priorities out of whack. No more scrapes, bruises, torn muscles, or groaning through the pain as the feeling returns to my frozen feet. Done. As the wind whipped around me and the light faded on the last day of bow season last night, I should have felt disappointed and humiliated. After all, I had managed to come up empty in my first season of exclusive bow hunting on a property crawling with deer. Instead there was a feeling of peace, contentment, and a brief, deep throb of joy. Twenty-five feet up a tree, I was given the chance to review the season, and let my Heavenly Father put it in perspective. Our youngest son, Isaac, passed away in A...
