Seven Turkeys

Six wild turkeys wandered through our yard last evening with the intent, I suppose, of being overnight guests.

Early this morning, on my way to the church, they were bobbing and pecking around our front lawn looking for breakfast.

I sat for a few minutes of suspended silence, in hushed eternity, observing my six new friends.

They were so close to me, I hardly dared to breathe.

I was reminded of Sigurd Olson's musing, "Beauty never stands alone, is so fragile it can be destroyed by a sound or a foreign thought."

And yet, the duties of the day compelled me to move on -- to drive past them. The sound of my engine startled them, and they rushed away. The spell was broken, and I was rather disappointed.

"There are not six turkeys here," I thought, "There are seven -- and the seventh is me."

The first time I ever preached, I was 16 years old. Trembling, I fumbled my way to the pulpit, cleared my throat several times. The booming Lloyd Oglivie voice I had imagined during my practice shrivelled to Mickey Mouse.

Then I looked down. Some kind friend had left an anonymous note for me on the pulpit. It said, "Loosen Up, Turkey!"

I don't know how it worked, but I was able to preach after that.

Afterwards, as I stood at the front door to shake hands with the parishoners, they seemed unusually elated and grateful.

They had survived my first sermon -- and we were all happy because it was only seven minutes long!