Sunday, September 16, 2018

My Father's Heart

Written January 7, 2016

Yesterday, once again we were blessed with snow. 

I've taken a week off work for respite, and was fortunate enough to spend a long time watching the birds. Around the feeders there was a happy community of goldfinch, sparrows, purple finch, towhees, juncos, wrens, doves, quail and the occasional bluejay. 


I was struck by how easily they shared the bounty of seed, darting in and out, taking turns jumping on and off the feeders and scurrying around each other to scoop up what fell to the ground. Then, in an urgent instant, all scattered to the four directions and the yard went strangely still. 


I knew a predator, likely a hawk, had entered the tableau; it took several minutes to locate him.


When I finally spotted him, I was suddenly reminded of my father telling me about the first - only - time he went hunting. 


He shot a deer but it didn't die instantly.  And when he tracked it down, it lay mortally wounded. 


He said the deer maintained eye contact with him until it took its last breath, and he knew in that moment he would never again pick up a gun. 


I'm grateful for my father's tender heart.










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