This is a fictional story, Please enjoy.
Don’t Shoot the Messenger
“You can’t shoot those things.”
Behind me, an unfamiliar voice made that statement as I lined up a shot at a large Canada goose.
Hunting alone, surrounded by only my decoys, I hadn’t expected any other voice within miles. My gun jerked, my shot was lost and the flock of geese I had artfully called took flight. I lowered the gun and craned around to see who had spoken. In my defense, I was cross about the interruption. “I happen to have a valid license.”
The man looked old enough to have lived two lifetimes. His face was long, with heavy lines, eyes thick-lidded, drooping, and moist. The clothes may have fit him in a younger era but now were too large. To add to my annoyance, he wasn’t even looking at me but at some point beyond. Managing not to swear, I stood up, my efforts lost for the day.
Before I could complain, he smiled and pointed, “See, there. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
All I saw was a muddy, harvested cornfield and my decoys. "Huh?"
“There,” he stabbed a gnarled finger forward. “You were aiming right at it.”
I squinted at the distant mountains. “The view? Yeah, beautiful scenery but why interrupt my hunt just to tell me that? You some sort of nature nut?”
He looked at me. “Well, Son, maybe that. I'm more inclined toward God creating everything and all nature speaks of Him."
I began to consider him a fruitcake. “My license for hunting geese says I can shoot them. You gonna give me trouble on that?"
He laughed, a hard, grunting, deep throaty noise. “Of course, you can hunt the geese. I meant you can’t shoot angels.”
My mind was working, thinking he'd escaped some nearby facility. “You see angels, Pop?”
The laugh came again. “Occasionally. Lately a bit more. I think it’s like maybe God is letting me know.”
“Know what?”
He pointed up. “Time to go home.”
Thinking he was talking about the actual hour of the day, I asked, “Your family worried about you wandering off?”
“Son, I’ve stayed on the straight and narrow path since I was fourteen.” He shook his head. “I strayed a little in my twenties and again in my late forties, but I’ve always returned to my Savior Jesus Christ.” When he rubbed his veined hands together against the chill, they sounded like old paper. “Yes, I have family waiting for me there. I'm wanting to see them, though, it'll be hard on the great grandkids. Ah, but their parents will raise them up in the Lord.”
He had me baffled. It was like we were having two different conversations. Breaking open the shotgun, I popped out the shells. Sliding the gun into the case, I closed it safely inside, securing the latches.
I asked, “You gonna be here tomorrow, Pop?” I only had this one week off from work and considered moving my spread to another field if he was going to interrupt my hunting.
“I don’t know. I suppose it depends on God. I keep waiting for that angel to step toward me and beckon me to come.” He sounded wistful and his eyes teared up, looking somewhere only he could see. “I'd like to be home to be with Jesus.”
“What are you talking about?
“Don’t you know Jesus, Son?”
“Sure, my mother took me to church.”
He laid his hand on my shoulder. “Son, do you know Jesus took your punishment because the wages of sin are death. He took the Father’s wrath so you wouldn’t have to. And if you don’t ask Jesus to save you, you're headed for eternity in the Lake of Fire?”
The hairs on my neck stood up. “I haven’t heard that in years. Not since Sunday School.”
"Son, will you ask Jesus to save you today? I wouldn't want to know that you were suffering forever in that tormenting fire.”
That old man's words burned like a hot brand on something other than my flesh. I thought sure the ground was opening to swallow me. I looked down expecting to see that flaming lake and was thankful just to see mud.
"Do want Jesus to save you?"
“Y...yes." And I did, kneeling with him right there in the mud.
The next morning, I parked the truck at the edge of the cornfield, having spent a sleepless night while my brain repeated every word he said, like a continual recorded loop. For some reason I didn't get out right away, just sat there listening to the radio. When suddenly, I reached out and cranked up the volume.
In that tone all newscasters have, he said "Last night, Mr. Hendrickson, our well-loved local minister died peacefully at home, in his sleep. We will miss him deeply. Heaven has gained a great saint."
The broadcast went on but I didn’t hear it. I stared out the windshield, thinking about God.
The End
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