My Misfire Became a Blessing by Scott Lawson

I want to tell you about the most embarrassing moment of my life.  And I want to tell you why it became one of the most important. 

It happened on a Saturday morning in southeast Kansas. I was twelve, maybe thirteen years old. I was quail hunting with my dad and several guys in our family — and I nearly shot his foot off.  But his reaction in that moment taught me something about God and true repentance that I haven't been able to forget.

Growing up, hunting wasn't just a hobby. It was how Dad and I spent time together.  We were bird hunters. Bob White quail, mostly. If you are a bird hunter, you might know that Bob White call, a whistle that sounds a lot like “bob-WHITE”.  That's exactly why they're called Bob Whites.

We'd walk the hedgerows for miles, following the bird dogs out to the back fields. I got my first shotgun at nine or ten — a little .410. A year later, I moved up to a 20 gauge and handed the .410 down to my brother.  You might raise an eyebrow at that. But in our family, it was normal — and it was safe, because Dad made absolutely sure.

Dad was a disciplinarian. Before hunter safety courses were even required, the Lawson household had its own. You never pointed a barrel near a person, a house, a road, livestock — ever. Cross a fence? Lay the gun down first, crawl through, retrieve it safely. After every hunt — disassemble the gun, clean it (don’t forget to remove every speck from inside the barrel so you can see a beautiful mirror finish as you look through it toward a light), then back together and stored safely. He would not accept anything less than exceptional gun safety. We learned early — sometimes through severe punishment — that he was completely serious.  So I knew the rules. I knew them cold.

This particular Saturday, we had two pickup trucks full of men — Dad, uncles, cousins, and me — out on my Great-Uncle Cap's farm. First time I'd ever hunted with a 12 gauge. Dad had a new gun and let me use his old one.

We worked our way along the hedge rows to a brush pile that was loaded with quail. Both dogs locked up and pointed at the same time. If you've ever seen a bird dog on point — tail out, one paw lifted, nose zeroed in — it is a beautiful thing.

Dad gave the command: “Flush!" And both dogs pounced toward the covey of quail.  That species has a special, unique loud flutter as they flap their wings to take off, easily identifiable with your eyes closed.  It’s beautiful to hear.

A dozen quail burst out in every direction. Every hunter picked one out and fired. Several got off a second or even a third shot before the birds were either down or too far away.

Except me. 

I had mine lined up, leading it just enough. I pulled the trigger… nothing.

So we finished the hunt, headed back to the trucks. And I started telling everyone why I didn't have any birds. "My gun just wouldn't fire," I said. "Here — watch. I clicked off the safety, like so…"

KABOOM!

The gun fired straight into the ground. Inches from my dad's foot.  Every voice stopped. My eyes were like saucers. My mouth hung wide open. These were men who joked about everything. Nobody had a word to say.

No one was hurt. But we all knew what could have happened.  I was flooded. Shame. Guilt. Embarrassment. Fear. The most serious offense of my life — in front of everyone — and I had failed Dad.

I broke the silence. I could barely get the words out.  "D-D-Dad… oh, Dad… I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry."

And then something very unexpected happened.  My dad's face didn't go red. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't even really respond to me.  Instead — I saw the faintest smile cross his face.  I couldn't understand it. This man — who had punished me just for joking about gun safety — was smiling? Now? I filed it away, confused and unsettled.

Tragically, just a few weeks later — my dad died. Suddenly. Unexpectedly.  That may have been the last time we ever hunted together.

For years, that moment haunted me. Why did he smile? Why didn't he give me what I deserved?  Then I became a father. And one day one of my boys broke a rule — and I saw something very remorseful in him… I felt no need to discipline him. In that moment, it hit me.  I finally understood.

That day many years earlier, Dad could see in my shaking, in my shame, in my eyes — that I had already learned my lesson. It was obvious that he didn't need to do anything more. He knew I would never be so careless with a gun again.

I now believe that quiet smile was a moment of pride.  He was proud that I had grown up a lot in that moment. I think he was thinking — "That's my boy."

God has used that memory many times since.  Here's the question it raises for me — What if my Heavenly Father could see that same thing in me, when I sin?  What if He could look at my response to my own misfires and see such a genuinely broken heart that He didn't need to discipline me further?

The writer of Hebrews says it this way: Hebrews 12:11 (NASB) says, ”For the moment, all discipline seems not to be pleasant, but painful; yet to those who have been trained by it, afterward it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness."

Too often when we mess up, we're sorry we did it — or sorry we got caught. But that isn't repentance. Not really.  Biblical repentance is a complete 180. It's not just pausing a sin. It's turning away from it so completely that you’ll never return to it.  You’re now walking toward God. Seeing your sin for what it truly is — disobedience to a holy God — and deciding with your whole heart you're not going back.

Jesus put it plainly in John 14:21 (NASB), "Whoever has My commandments and keeps them is the one who loves Me. The one who loves Me will be loved by My Father, and I will love him and will reveal Myself to him."

When we truly repent — of gossip, of pornography, of pride, of overindulgence (alcohol, drugs, food), of sexual sin, of dishonesty, of whatever it is we keep returning to — God can see it. He can see the eyes like saucers. The mouth wide open. The broken heart.  I believe sometimes He looks at that and He smiles — and He says, "That's My boy (or girl). He (or she) gets it. He (or she) doesn't need anything more from Me right now."

The trouble is — most of the time we don't get there without discipline. We ask forgiveness and deep down we've already made room to go back. We don't turn 180 degrees — we turn 90. We pause or we turn from the sin… but not completely toward God.

Not everyone had what I had.  Some grew up with a father who was absent. Or hard. Or angry. Or who simply never showed up — not in the ways that mattered.  And when Imention a father smiling with understanding… there may be a part of you that aches. Because you never got that. Not from your dad.

Your earthly father's failures are not a picture of your Heavenly Father.  The psalm writer David — a man who knew abandonment — wrote this in Psalm 27:10 (NASB), ”For my father and my mother have forsaken me, But the Lord will take me up."

God is not an upgraded version of the man who raised you — or failed to. He is something entirely different. He is the Father your soul has always been searching for.  In fact, some carry a wound so deep that they've built a wall between themselves and God because of their earthly father. They see God through that same lens — distant, disappointed, angry, or simply gone.  They have an “Orphan Spirit.”

If that's you, I want to invite you to let that picture go.  If you've ever struggled to picture God as a good Father because of your own experience, tell someone,  just as an act of honesty. That kind of honesty is exactly where healing starts.”

The discipline God brings into your life — those hard seasons, those sifting moments — they are not the anger of a cruel man. They are the intentional love of a Father who is for you. Hebrews 12:7b says it plainly: "God deals with you as with sons [and daughters].”  He disciplines the ones He loves. He refines the ones He claims.  He is looking for people who will stop running and turn around — fully — and walk toward Him.

Is there a misfire in your life? Something you've been asking forgiveness for, but haven't truly repented of?  Come to Jesus — not with a polished version of yourself, but with honest eyes, an open heart, and the willingness to make a real turn.

Release what you're carrying. Let His light shine on the parts of your heart you'd rather keep in the dark. Let Him be your Father — maybe for the first time.  And maybe — if you let yourself be truly broken before Him — you'll hear something in your spirit that sounds something like, "That's my boy (or girl).”