The Lone Leaf

Finally, brethren, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is of good repute, if there is any excellence and if anything worthy of praise, dwell on these things. Phil 4:8

It was our last Youth Hunting Day. Alabama started this activity several years back, allowing a child under 16 to hunt with an adult, one weekend before the actual deer season starts in the state. Stephen will turn 16 in the next year, and will no longer be eligible to participate in the "head start" on deer season. The intent of the regulation is a good one, fathers and their children (and some mothers, too) spend time on the deer stand and develop some lasting memories. We have done this since he was 11, but this was the last time our two pair of boots will grace a stand on Youth Day. We rarely hunt together during the regular season now, as he always wants us to split up to "increase our chances."

Morning comes early during deer season. Sleepy eyed and yawning, we go through the ritual of dressing and loading the truck like a couple of automatons. Few words are spoken, as we had already decided on the one of the many locations on my parent’s beautiful, rolling farmland. Upon leaving the truck we are guided only by our flashlights and the memory of our emplacement. Once settled in the double stand, I look at my watch and realize that we beat Mr. Sunrise by about 20 minutes, so we eat a granola bar and I lay my head down across my forearm for a brief interlude.

A stirring occurrence takes place in the darkened woods: sounds. It is the dew falling off the leaves and hitting the earthen floor that accents the blackness. The random pit-pat coming from all sides gives the impression that it is raining, then again, maybe it is raining. But it is God's creation playing another ruse. I cut my eyes skyward and notice the blue-white twinkles dancing through the leaves. A clean, clear autumn sky, nature has tricked me again, smiling. Among the pit-pats of the dew, an occasional startling smack! is heard, and I would have to wait until daylight to see the culprit.

Sunlight begins to peek through the fall colors and the pit-pat picks up dramatically. And my culprit? A rock hard hickory nut falling in a straight line trajectory and smacking the leaves with great impact. The fresh carpet of leaves—so many untouched by the boots of men or the hoofs and paws of Alabama’s abundant wildlife–a true patchwork quilt of nature, lay placidly below our feet.

The slightest rush of cool air through the trees yields a leaf shower. They remind me of the fat snowflakes that fall so rarely in Alabama, the kind that descend with such grace and beauty that one realizes only God could be responsible. Some of the leaves settle in a whirlybird motion, others a more indirect route, like the feather in the movie "Forrest Gump". My attention turns to a lone leaf, wondering when would it be "his" turn to make the journey south. "What type of path would you take, where will you be sewn in to the quilt below, wait... are you just fooling me? You are so stunning that maybe you are painted on that branch like "The Last Leaf" in O Henry’s masterpiece short story."

Thinking about nothing, thinking about everything.

You can tell the day gets busy quickly, as the sounds of the creatures multiply. The noisy cacophony of crows answering one another. Those irritating gray squirrels dancing from tree to tree, for years tricking novice hunters into thinking that a deer was nearby. We both know better now; a 200 lb buck makes less noise in the woods than a chipmunk or squirrel does. Woodpeckers drilling trees, looking for those morning treats. The gentle cluck of a turkey and a gobble, if one is lucky.

Over a mile away, we hear the low moan of a single cow somewhere in the locale of the barn. It grows louder and louder, joined by his fellow bovines, indicating that Pop is filling the breakfast troughs with cracked corn.

"Listen to that one cow," I whisper, "he sounds like an airhorn at a football game!"

Stephen immediately grins and replies, "He sounds JUST like one!"

There were no deer seen on this morning. We decided to follow our stomachs back to the house, as we knew my brother, also visiting and known for his famous breakfasts, would have something tasty. As I watched Stephen walk to the truck, I sensed his disappointment; Youth Hunting Day had ended in a successful hunt in years past. I knew his measure of success was different than mine, he would understand one day, when he had kids of his own, at least this is what I thought.

Later that night on the way home, I asked him if he had a good time, even though we had not seen a deer. His reply was a delightful surprise.

"You know Dad, I can get out on a deer stand and not have to think about anything, not about school, just sit, look, listen, and clear my mind."

Thinking about nothing, thinking about everything, both worthy of praise. I underestimate him at times. Maybe he understands Paul’s admonition to the Phillipians to "let your mind dwell on these things" better than I do.

Mark
Prov 17:22