Marking Our Territory
I always liked Chuck. He was a good old country boy who loved to 'coon hunt. Born and raised in Arizona, I knew nothing about that kind of thing.
In fact, I knew nothing about most things in rural Indiana.
I remember talking to the man who owned the farmland around our home. He wasn’t a member of our church so I thought it was safe to ask him a stupid question.
“I recognize the corn around me, of course,” I said. “But what’s that smaller stuff I see growing everywhere? And what’s that huge tractor-like thing in the barn behind my house?”
“Those are soybeans, and we call that machine a combine” he said, suppressing a smile. (Asking that question in Indiana is like asking someone in Arizona, "What in the world is that prickly thingy?")
On another occasion I visited a neighbor who proudly showed off his flower garden. The front of his house was filled with every kind of bloom I could imagine.
He told me about all the stuff he planned to add next year. “Where will you find room?” I innocently asked. He laughed, “Why these are what we call ‘annuals.’ They die over winter and I’ll have to plant new things.”
I had no idea. In Lake Havasu City, where I grew up, we painted rocks and called it good.
At first I was self-conscious about my agricultural inexperience. But Fred, an old-timer, put my mind at ease when he said, “Preacher, we don’t expect you to know about farming. We know plenty about that ourselves. You just keep on teaching the Bible and we’ll get along just fine.”
And we did. Our four years as a young family in Dillman, Indiana were among the happiest and most rewarding of our lives.
Anyway, as I said, Chuck loved to ‘coon hunt. Turns out its not really very sporting, at least as Chuck described it to me.
Apparently the key to a successful 'coon hunt is a good dog. The dog picks up the scent of the raccoon and chases it up a tree. The hunter follows the dog and then shoots the 'coon -- sitting duck -- out of the tree.
As I said, it doesn't sound too sporting.
One day I saw Chuck getting ready for a late-night 'coon hunt. In the back of his truck were two cages into which he was coaxing his two hunting dogs.
"Why do you have two separate cages for the dogs?" I asked.
Chuck looked at me, incredulous. "Are you kidding?" he said. "Why them dogs would kill each other if I put them in the same cage!"
"Really! Why is that?" I asked.
"Well, them dogs is made for huntin', and if they ain't huntin', they'll be fightin’."
Made sense to me.
Later I mused: maybe that’s what’s wrong with us church folk. We were created to serve people like Jesus did, but instead we prefer to be caged up together. Denied our natural calling, we resort to infighting, barking and – dare I say it? – territory pissing.
Doesn’t sound very sporting to me.
In fact, I knew nothing about most things in rural Indiana.
I remember talking to the man who owned the farmland around our home. He wasn’t a member of our church so I thought it was safe to ask him a stupid question.
“I recognize the corn around me, of course,” I said. “But what’s that smaller stuff I see growing everywhere? And what’s that huge tractor-like thing in the barn behind my house?”
“Those are soybeans, and we call that machine a combine” he said, suppressing a smile. (Asking that question in Indiana is like asking someone in Arizona, "What in the world is that prickly thingy?")
On another occasion I visited a neighbor who proudly showed off his flower garden. The front of his house was filled with every kind of bloom I could imagine.
He told me about all the stuff he planned to add next year. “Where will you find room?” I innocently asked. He laughed, “Why these are what we call ‘annuals.’ They die over winter and I’ll have to plant new things.”
I had no idea. In Lake Havasu City, where I grew up, we painted rocks and called it good.
At first I was self-conscious about my agricultural inexperience. But Fred, an old-timer, put my mind at ease when he said, “Preacher, we don’t expect you to know about farming. We know plenty about that ourselves. You just keep on teaching the Bible and we’ll get along just fine.”
And we did. Our four years as a young family in Dillman, Indiana were among the happiest and most rewarding of our lives.
Anyway, as I said, Chuck loved to ‘coon hunt. Turns out its not really very sporting, at least as Chuck described it to me.
Apparently the key to a successful 'coon hunt is a good dog. The dog picks up the scent of the raccoon and chases it up a tree. The hunter follows the dog and then shoots the 'coon -- sitting duck -- out of the tree.
As I said, it doesn't sound too sporting.
One day I saw Chuck getting ready for a late-night 'coon hunt. In the back of his truck were two cages into which he was coaxing his two hunting dogs.
"Why do you have two separate cages for the dogs?" I asked.
Chuck looked at me, incredulous. "Are you kidding?" he said. "Why them dogs would kill each other if I put them in the same cage!"
"Really! Why is that?" I asked.
"Well, them dogs is made for huntin', and if they ain't huntin', they'll be fightin’."
Made sense to me.
Later I mused: maybe that’s what’s wrong with us church folk. We were created to serve people like Jesus did, but instead we prefer to be caged up together. Denied our natural calling, we resort to infighting, barking and – dare I say it? – territory pissing.
Doesn’t sound very sporting to me.