A Sunday Turkey

Sometimes it’s fun to go through old hunting photos. On my most recent walk down memory lane I came across this one, in which you’ll notice that I’m not wearing camo and my hair looks like I might have actually brushed it.

The truth is that I hadn’t planned on hunting that morning, although turkey season was in full swing. It was Sunday and my husband and I were on our way to church when we noticed a small flock of gobblers on my parents’ property as we drove past.

Chris looked at me and said, “Do you want to shoot one?” It was a dumb question because he already knew that I did—in the worst way. A few days before, he had called in a huge tom in for me only to have it spook as I was preparing to squeeze the trigger. Major disappointment had begotten turkey fever.

We turned the car around and grabbed a shotgun, hurrying to the base of my parents’ field in hopes that the turkeys were still there. They were. We came up with a game plan that had us sneaking around some trees and taking cover behind some large bushes. The sneaking was done VERY carefully. Not because I had church clothes on and was afraid of ripping my long silky skirt, but because I had church clothes on and knew that I stuck out like a parishioner in a pub—to the turkeys, at least.

Hunkering down behind the shrubs, we remained undetected and it wasn’t long before a few of them began meandering their way toward us. I took the first one—a nice fat hen—that came into shooting range.

We headed back toward my parents’ house with thanksgiving in both our hearts and our hands (literally), deciding that we’d hang the hen there for the meantime and head for church. We knew we’d be a tad late, but you better bet we would be there. God gave us a turkey and we were still wearing what we had planned to praise Him in, after all.

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