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 August after a three-year battle with metastatic bone cancer. He fought his fight well, kept the faith, and left us a victor. [See Isaac White's Journey] But the three year struggle had taken its toll on all of us. At the end of Isaac's life and afterwards, I wallowed in exhaustion and adrenal fatigue, not understanding what was wrong with me. Looking for something positive to balance the weight of grief, I eagerly picked up my bow to get ready for the upcoming deer season. I was too weak to draw it back. Another loss when I already felt I had too many to bear.
After a shocked pause, I decided I had to try to make it work. I started an exercise program for my upper back and shoulders. I took the bow in and had the shop dial it back as much as was safe. I kept trying. With a target hung in the basement, I tried to draw the bow every day. To start with I was happy to get it drawn once, but little by little I built up to a dozen.
With all that had been going on in our lives, nothing was ready. Stands were unhung and lanes uncut. My husband spent a couple days obliging me with his chainsaw, and late as it was, things started to take shape. I finally could draw enough times consecutively to sight in the bow. When Barry and I took our fall trip to a state park in October, the bow went with us and I worked on consistency and accuracy. At home I went through the tasks of weighing arrows, matching broad heads and gathering up every thing I needed on stand. Well in to the season, I finally started to hunt.
Very little went according to plan. I managed to make every mistake in the book and come up with a few shockers uniquely my own. I even miscommunicated with my contacts once to the point that they showed up with emergency equipment ready to scour the woods in the dark. I only had one opportunity to draw on a deer and I botched it with a misfire before I'd fully aimed. At least I didn't cut myself with a broad head or fall out of a tree.
I can console myself with the fact that in spite of everything I gained experience and learned a lot, but why stop there? Bowhunting has been a gift. I was at the bottom of a deep well, weak and exhausted. Bowhunting was part of the ladder that helped me climb out rung by rung. My hunts have been a blessed respite from the pressure of all the things that "need to be dealt with." They have placed me in the middle of creation where I have been stunned at the beauty around me, and reminded of how very small I am - including my mistakes. I've been given a clearer view of how very big and very good God is. And as if that weren't enough, last night there was that flash of joy, a peek at the reality that undergirds the universe, a glimpse of the truth that in spite of all that's wrong in the world, even the most malignant evil and the deepest hurt are nothing compared to all things being fulfilled in Jesus. Death is swallowed up in victory.
So, I'm done.
I've done well, and I'm glad, and so very thankful, sitting here at the top of the ladder.
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 August after a three-year battle with metastatic bone cancer. He fought his fight well, kept the faith, and left us a victor. [See Isaac White's Journey] But the three year struggle had taken its toll on all of us. At the end of Isaac's life and afterwards, I wallowed in exhaustion and adrenal fatigue, not understanding what was wrong with me. Looking for something positive to balance the weight of grief, I eagerly picked up my bow to get ready for the upcoming deer season. I was too weak to draw it back. Another loss when I already felt I had too many to bear.
After a shocked pause, I decided I had to try to make it work. I started an exercise program for my upper back and shoulders. I took the bow in and had the shop dial it back as much as was safe. I kept trying. With a target hung in the basement, I tried to draw the bow every day. To start with I was happy to get it drawn once, but little by little I built up to a dozen.
With all that had been going on in our lives, nothing was ready. Stands were unhung and lanes uncut. My husband spent a couple days obliging me with his chainsaw, and late as it was, things started to take shape. I finally could draw enough times consecutively to sight in the bow. When Barry and I took our fall trip to a state park in October, the bow went with us and I worked on consistency and accuracy. At home I went through the tasks of weighing arrows, matching broad heads and gathering up every thing I needed on stand. Well in to the season, I finally started to hunt.
Very little went according to plan. I managed to make every mistake in the book and come up with a few shockers uniquely my own. I even miscommunicated with my contacts once to the point that they showed up with emergency equipment ready to scour the woods in the dark. I only had one opportunity to draw on a deer and I botched it with a misfire before I'd fully aimed. At least I didn't cut myself with a broad head or fall out of a tree.
I can console myself with the fact that in spite of everything I gained experience and learned a lot, but why stop there? Bowhunting has been a gift. I was at the bottom of a deep well, weak and exhausted. Bowhunting was part of the ladder that helped me climb out rung by rung. My hunts have been a blessed respite from the pressure of all the things that "need to be dealt with." They have placed me in the middle of creation where I have been stunned at the beauty around me, and reminded of how very small I am - including my mistakes. I've been given a clearer view of how very big and very good God is. And as if that weren't enough, last night there was that flash of joy, a peek at the reality that undergirds the universe, a glimpse of the truth that in spite of all that's wrong in the world, even the most malignant evil and the deepest hurt are nothing compared to all things being fulfilled in Jesus. Death is swallowed up in victory.
I've done well, and I'm glad, and so very thankful, sitting here at the top of the ladder.
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