... A Joy Forever

Lots of my friends have been sick of late. Over the last two weeks, both of my parents were added to the list of "sick and infirm" in the prayers of the people. Matthew, sensing what was going on in my soul, suggested that perhaps on Tuesday afternoon, we could shoot some clays at his club below Athens. I arrived at Casa deCanter at about 2:15 EST. After a bit of liquid refreshment, we loaded into the Cherokee and headed for the range. About half way over the rain started- one of those torrential downpours that only lasts for thirty or fourty minutes, but which swells creeks and does all sorts of strange things to the feel of the woods.
When we finally approached the firing line, we carried two of my "lightweight" shotguns: a Mossberg 500 pump action, and a Stoeger Uplander side by side, both in full choked .410 bore. I switched to the diminutive .410 a few months ago when I finally realized that I am too old to continue hobbies that cause pain, or even mild discomfort. A grown man can shoot a .410 all day and never suffer from the recoil. Many who consider themselves real men consider such small guns as toys, fit only for kids. But both guns are beautiful in their own way. The Mossberg pump represents all that is best about classic American ingenuity, with its ever so mechanical slide action, moving parts, and form to function design. The Stoeger side by side has all of the lines and style of an older world, and whispers the beauty of gentelmanly tradition. And both are real tack drivers.
In the midst of our shooting, I noticed that Matthew lowered his gun and stood looking pensively downrange. I paused and realized what had caused his hesitation. We were witnesses to one of those rare and magnificent moments when the storm front passes. Colors seemed to glow from within, and trees and sky took on an almost magical glow. Whisps of mist hung in the distance, and nature seemed alive with a primitive savagery. In such moments, game fish become ruthlessly aggressive and true sportsmen marvel at the glory of God who has made us all, and sustains us for His own purposes. It was good to share such a moment with my son-in-law.
Later that evening, we passed a brother to the degree of Fellowcraft at Lancaster Lodge. The temple is a stately and ordered place, with symmetrical columns all around, and furniture which could grace the hall of a chieftan or a tribal elder. As our brother passed through the shadowy perambulations, the storm struck again with all of its primitive fury. The thunder and lightening, and the driving rain on the tile roof reminded us all of the mystical nature of those things we were about, and called us to acknowledge the majesty of the Great Architect of the Universe.
This morning, at about ten o'clock, I realized that I needed to stock my Communion set. I was alone in the sanctuary at St. John's. As I opened the tabernacle to attend to my duties, I was struck by the holiness of that sacred place, and of the presence of God who loved me, and sent His only begotten Son to die for my sins. In the stillness, with the dark wood and the beautiful stained glass around me, I sensed the witness of those who had done the same thing before me, and anticipated those who would follow me in the sacred office. God indeed sent His Spirit to bear witness with my own, just as He promised to do in the Epistle lesson for the Eighth Sunday after Trinity. For a third time in as many days, I had witnessed the beauty of the holiness of God, and I could not but stand in awe of Him who saved me.
I thank thee Lord, for favouring me with thy presence, and pray thy forgiveness and mercy for myself, and for all those I love. through Jesus Christ our Saviour, who lives and reigns with Thee and the Holy Ghost, one God, now and forever. AMEN.