August 1st, 2021
by Jason Huckabee
by Jason Huckabee
by Paul Cypert
IN THE WIND…
It was early January,
Last day of whitetail deer season on the High Plains of Texas,
With a good friend, guiding his 16-year-old daughter on her first deer hunt.
The three of us crammed into a two person deer blind, which wasn’t a negative, glad for the warmth of a couple of extra bodies.
It was about 18 degrees that early morning. I was in a familiar place, a prairie runway of sorts. Deer feeding on the wheat fields through the night hours now headed back to cover. A long stretch of prairie grass lay between the deer and the sage brush hills and locust tree groves that furnished the concealment they sought.
Remarkably, once in cover, they vanish in the prairie scape. A daytime repose where deer like to pass their day chewing the cud, hopefully undetected. They wait patiently for the night to move as the sun goes away, then return to feed.
I had hunted this locality many times over the last 25 years. It’s still wild and that’s what I love about it.
And by far, my most favorite place to be on a cold Texas morning during whitetail season.
In days past, we would tuck in under an old abandoned windmill sitting on the ground shivering from the cold and the anticipation of what we might see.
And just as the sun rises you experience the day’s coldest moment, but I’m getting to dang old for that.
It makes my backside and my bones hurt. This year, I added a deer blind, and there we waited for legal hunting light on cushioned seats.
The morning of the hunt wasn’t any different than most January mornings on the High Plains. The wind calming before the sun dawns. You could vaguely see the dark shadowy images of critters moving to the cover and as night gave way to its master the sun, it chased the shadow world away.
Later that morning, we harvested a mature prairie buck, venison for the table, and soon a visit to the taxidermist in order to preserve the moment and memories made.
So, the story will be told again and again…
Lots of respect for the animal, celebration and love among brothers and sisters and a few pictures.
The ranch owner, a good friend got a phone call, and he made his way down to the kill zone and helped us load Kodi’s trophy.
As I walked away, headed a half mile or so back to my vehicle the wind picked up. It was cold, and it bit against my face. Now the wind getting up and increasing in velocity which is not uncommon for the prairie.
But this was,
A soft voice but not unfamiliar although, sounded in my soul that morning,
‘I’m in the wind today and you’.
And the church bells rang pristine and clear on the plains that Sunday morning but no one else heard, for it was in the wind.
Jesus talking;
The wind blows where it wishes and you hear the sound of it, but do not know where it comes from and where it is going; so is everyone who is born of the Spirit.” (John 3:8)
And in the words of an old hymn
This is my Father’s world:
The birds their carols raise,
The morning light, the lily white,
Declare their Maker’s praise.
This is my Father’s world:
He shines in all that’s fair;
In the rustling grass I hear Him pass,
He speaks to me everywhere.
Author: Maltbie Babcock, (1901)
For all its, drama, rhetoric, catastrophes, concerns, epic fails, politics, pandemics, religious posturing and melodrama,
This is still my Father’s world.
Honestly?
In light of knowing Him the above dims and quiet honestly, not all that interesting.
Both small and large faded and as I arrived at my truck,
The wind although cold and strong was filled with praise, and with the true King and I it was as it should be.
IN THE WIND…
It was early January,
Last day of whitetail deer season on the High Plains of Texas,
With a good friend, guiding his 16-year-old daughter on her first deer hunt.
The three of us crammed into a two person deer blind, which wasn’t a negative, glad for the warmth of a couple of extra bodies.
It was about 18 degrees that early morning. I was in a familiar place, a prairie runway of sorts. Deer feeding on the wheat fields through the night hours now headed back to cover. A long stretch of prairie grass lay between the deer and the sage brush hills and locust tree groves that furnished the concealment they sought.
Remarkably, once in cover, they vanish in the prairie scape. A daytime repose where deer like to pass their day chewing the cud, hopefully undetected. They wait patiently for the night to move as the sun goes away, then return to feed.
I had hunted this locality many times over the last 25 years. It’s still wild and that’s what I love about it.
And by far, my most favorite place to be on a cold Texas morning during whitetail season.
In days past, we would tuck in under an old abandoned windmill sitting on the ground shivering from the cold and the anticipation of what we might see.
And just as the sun rises you experience the day’s coldest moment, but I’m getting to dang old for that.
It makes my backside and my bones hurt. This year, I added a deer blind, and there we waited for legal hunting light on cushioned seats.
The morning of the hunt wasn’t any different than most January mornings on the High Plains. The wind calming before the sun dawns. You could vaguely see the dark shadowy images of critters moving to the cover and as night gave way to its master the sun, it chased the shadow world away.
Later that morning, we harvested a mature prairie buck, venison for the table, and soon a visit to the taxidermist in order to preserve the moment and memories made.
So, the story will be told again and again…
Lots of respect for the animal, celebration and love among brothers and sisters and a few pictures.
The ranch owner, a good friend got a phone call, and he made his way down to the kill zone and helped us load Kodi’s trophy.
As I walked away, headed a half mile or so back to my vehicle the wind picked up. It was cold, and it bit against my face. Now the wind getting up and increasing in velocity which is not uncommon for the prairie.
But this was,
A soft voice but not unfamiliar although, sounded in my soul that morning,
‘I’m in the wind today and you’.
And the church bells rang pristine and clear on the plains that Sunday morning but no one else heard, for it was in the wind.
Jesus talking;
The wind blows where it wishes and you hear the sound of it, but do not know where it comes from and where it is going; so is everyone who is born of the Spirit.” (John 3:8)
And in the words of an old hymn
This is my Father’s world:
The birds their carols raise,
The morning light, the lily white,
Declare their Maker’s praise.
This is my Father’s world:
He shines in all that’s fair;
In the rustling grass I hear Him pass,
He speaks to me everywhere.
Author: Maltbie Babcock, (1901)
For all its, drama, rhetoric, catastrophes, concerns, epic fails, politics, pandemics, religious posturing and melodrama,
This is still my Father’s world.
Honestly?
In light of knowing Him the above dims and quiet honestly, not all that interesting.
Both small and large faded and as I arrived at my truck,
The wind although cold and strong was filled with praise, and with the true King and I it was as it should be.
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