The questionnaire arrived in the mail.
It required little time to complete.
Yes, I did hunt swans.
No, I didn’t get one.
And that may be a good thing.
Had I been successful, my wife joked she was going to tell my grandchildren that grandpa killed a swan.
My ineptitude at bagging one of the majestic birds saved me the scorn of a couple of little girls who are a bit suspect of me anyway.
“Grandpa doesn’t know Jesus,” the youngest recently told my wife.
“Oh yes he does,” Barb replied.
I’m sure, however, that my grandchildren remain doubtful of my salvation.
I seldom go to church, rarely read the Bible and no longer hold a regular job.
But they should realize, as surely as I didn’t shoot a swan last fall, I do know Jesus.
Matter of fact he was sitting next to me in the marsh. He always is. He’s there when I’m successful and he’s there when I miss three easy shots in a row.
He’s there when I cuss the dog for not sitting still and he’s there when I crack a beer at the end of the day.
I don’t expect him to make the hunt any easier or the dog more obedient.
I’ve simply come to expect him to be there. For as long as I can remember he has been.
He’s the reason I didn’t bag a swan although the questionnaire didn’t ask why. He’ll also be responsible for my success one day or my never-ending failure.
Only 25 percent of the hunters who held a swan permit in 2006 actually bagged one. I know they weren’t the only camo-clad hunters hiding in the cattails acquainted with Jesus.
If successful wing-shooting was that easy there would be a lot more waterfowlers seeking salvation in the marsh.
And surely the informational pamphlet that accompanied my swan permit would have included “get to know Jesus” along with recommended shooting distances and shot size.
My grandchildren should know that while they’re much more likely to find me in the field come Sunday morning than in a pew, or reading the solunar tables instead of 1 Corinthians, I do know Jesus.
Maybe next fall the two of us will bag a swan. Either way, I certainly won’t be out there alone.
And if I’m successful, I hope Barb won’t tell the girls. Explaining my faith to them could turn out to be a lot easier than explaining why I shot a swan.