Words Like Arrows

need to be controlled

Scripture Reading: James 1:26-27

Dad wasn’t a hunter. As best as I could piece together from the fragmentary bits of information he dropped along the path of his life, it wasn’t due to any anti-hunting sentiment. Dad grew up on a farm in Iowa. Life wasn’t always easy. Some cold winters he would tromp around in the snow rabbit hunting. Not for sport. For dinner. When he became a man, he decided as long as he could buy a hamburger from Safeway, he would just as soon stay inside by the fire.

By default, then, hunting wasn’t a part of my upbringing. But when I moved my family out to rural Mayes County where the deer, rabbits, squirrels, and quail were abundant, I thought I would give it a try. My friend Paul and I rabbit-hunted – a story for another day. Ralph taught me to quail hunt (the only hunting I enjoyed but the quail eventually disappeared). And I tried to be a self-taught bow-season deer hunter.

With the help of a friend who knew how to weld, I built a tree stand and set it up in a nice grove on a friend’s old farmland. I bought a decent entry-level compound bow and set up a target in an open field out in front of the church I pastored and began to teach myself how to shoot arrows with a compound bow.

One afternoon while taking target practice, I hate to confess, a thought flashed through my mind. A moment of curiosity. A question that begged, it seemed, to be answered. Exactly how high would an arrow fly? Foolishly, without any forethought, I aimed the bow toward the sky and let the arrow fly. As soon as I released the string, the stupidity of my actions struck me. I had no way of knowing precisely where the arrow would land or what damage it might do.

As much as I wished I could, I couldn’t get that arrow back. All I could do is watch it ascend out of sight and pray – plead that nothing bad would happen. I looked to my right where my neighbor’s cows were grazing along a fence line just across the road and wondered how much a cow would cost. I prayed that no one would drive down the road in case the arrow landed there.

Mercifully, the arrow hurtled harmlessly back to earth. It shattered on the nearby asphalt road. Sheepishly I took the walk of shame, picked up the broken bits and pieces, hoping no one saw this fool in the field.

All too often my words, like that arrow, fly off without much forethought, without a real target, without consideration of where they might land or what damage they might do. I have the thought and let it fly. And no matter how desperately I wish to take them back, once I let them go, they’re gone. All I can do is hope and pray for mercy. And learn, I hope, to take better, more purposeful aim. For words are powerful things.