The two little boys trailed their grandpa to the hunting blind, a large rock draped in brush and tree limbs. Boulders dotted the hills, and brush grew taller than the boys’ heads. All three hunters wore camouflage. Stealth was needed to bag a wild turkey, and the boys and their grandpa were determined to come home with a twenty pound gobbler.
The older boy, at nine years old, was already on edge. Earlier they’d heard a strange noise as they walked the hills. The growl of a bear perhaps, or the boom of a passing plane. Either way, it had frightened the older, red-haired boy and now he dogged his grandpa’s steps with determination, urging his seven-year-old brother to do the same.
Hundreds of miles away, driving in a car, their mother prayed for the boys’ safety. She’d risen early that morning, preparing for a writer’s conference that would last the weekend through. Tears streaked the mother’s face as she sped along the highway arguing with God over a scripture verse from her devotions that morning. She followed a reading plan in her Bible and didn’t believe in coincidences. The Holy Spirit had quickened her to pray extra hard over Lamentations 2:19 “Lift up your hands for the lives of your children.” This had happened in the past with this same scripture and God had protected her children from harm before this way.
The mother didn’t want to go to the conference, didn’t want to leave her little ones, but her husband had put his foot down, and God had placed his hand on her that she must go.
How this came about wasn’t pretty. Weeks of sickness had drained the mother. Both her doctor and her husband and worried parents insisted she wean their one-year-old baby. “You need your health back,” they told her. “You need rest and restoration. Go be with God at Mt. Hermon. By the time you get back, the baby will be weaned and you’ll get well, too.”
But she didn’t feel well driving away from her little ones. And the fact that the Lamentations devotion landed in her readings that very morning didn’t make matters easier.
The month of March had come in like a lion bringing a respiratory virus that led to pneumonia in the house. Fevers, coughing, lung congestion hit the family hard. The mother had just finished her own amoxicillin the day she departed for the conference. A week after that, her baby would still be taking the pink medicine.
And the little boys hunting with their grandpa had been sick, too. The younger boy, it was his birthday and he turned seven that morning of the hunt, was still coughing a month into his pneumonia. The older boy’s stomach was a mess.
“Opa I have to poop,” he kept telling his grandpa. Perhaps making excuses to go back to the safety of the outhouse his grandpa didn’t want to drive him back down the hill to again.
“You’ve already used the outhouse,” said Opa. “Learn to poop in the wild. Find a rock, we’ll wait for you. We’re almost to the blind, and I’m not driving you all the way back to the crapper again.”
The older boy was afraid. But he was also obedient by nature and did what his grandpa told him to do.
Finally arriving at the blind, the boys hunkered down against a large rock with their grandpa concealing them behind branches. The grandpa then joined them there, all sitting close, looking out at the clearing where they hoped to call in the turkeys.
Their grandpa was good at that. Calling turkeys. Soon his call brought the return gobbles of nearby birds.
Opa grew excited. As did the boys. Little did they know that the turkey call would bring in more than turkeys…
Headed for Mount Hermon, their mother continued to pray. She would not be told until the weekend ended what happened to her boys that day.
Opa called in the turkeys. The birds sounded close, gobbling in response to Opa’s authentic call. The boys peered out of the blind, looking for the big gobbler Opa hoped to shoot. Opa’s gun lay across his lap ready for use. The younger curly-haired boy snuggled against Opa’s side. The older, red-haired boy sat on the other side of the rock, his knees tucked against his chest in a protective manner. He hadn’t gotten over being scared, but his grandpa was only an arm’s reach around the rock. And turkeys were coming…
The turkey call filled the boys’ ears. Then an unbelievable rush hit the blind. A growling beast burst through the branches, slamming into the older boy. The coyote’s teeth clamped down on his thigh.
The attack happened so fast, the boy made no movement or sound. The coyote, intent on perhaps eating the turkey he thought was the little boy’s camouflaged body, leaped off the boy when Opa banged his gun against the animal’s head.
The coyote dashed away as several more coyotes rushed the blind. The grandpa shot several times into the pack, killing one of the attacking coyotes.
Down in the redwood forest at the writers’ conference, the mother believed the day had passed peacefully for her family. She’d called home several times, reassured by her husband that all was well with the kids.
As she lay down to sleep that night, tears soaking her pillow from missing her family so much, she thanked God for his faithfulness to keep her children safe, never realizing how faithful God had really been that day.

So that’s my way of telling all of you what’s been going on in my life lately. This story really happened last weekend.

This weekend is Easter. My prayer for you who read this blog is that God will show you how faithful He really is. Our Jesus bled and died for you. And He loves you so much. May you feel his amazing love this weekend as you celebrate Easter and all it means to you and to Jesus.