The Turkey: The End of Timotheos 2

There’s a story by Flannery O’Connor called the Turkey. It leads you through the erratic emotions of a young boy as he chases down the title bird, gives thanks to God, proudly struts through town, gives his only dime to the beggar woman in gratitude, and then is stopped by some local bullies who steal the turkey off his shoulder. The boy runs home ‘as though fear itself was chasing him, claws outstretched’, or something like that. I remember the claws.

And I remember the emotions. That boy is so very like myself. Chasing and proud, running hard after a turkey and finally catching it. He proudly trots it through town, giving thanks to God, but really only because he has been made to look good in front of his neighbors. And when it is stolen from him, his heart recoils into fear and despair, suspicious of the very God he so recently worshipped.

Yesterday afternoon I went for a run before my sisters and their good friend arrived to help me move out. Shout out to them- I love them very much, even the friend. Since I left for college I have realized how much I have been given in those two girls, and it’s absurdly undeserved. And in their friends too. They could have really crummy friends, but they don’t. Even their friends love me well and encourage me. Rarely have I been humbled so frequently by someone so young as when I spend time with my siblings and their friends.

Enough mush. I went on a run. And about two miles in I noticed something running along the fence line on my right. A large bird. A turkey.

Frightened, it ran, maintaining a good twelve foot gap between us. I chased it for about a quarter of a mile before it doubled back and I had it more or less pinned against the fenceline. I didn’t try to catch it, but I could have. It was exhausted, and wasn’t flying away- it must have had something wrong with it. I let it go and ran home.

It instantly reminded me of the story, but it wasn’t until this morning that I realized what the story was about. The first time I read it, I knew it resonated with me deeply, but I wasn’t sure why- but this morning, after chatting with my sisters’ friend, and wrestling with my own pride and desire to prove myself, did I realize how much it had to do with me.

In much of my ministry I gave God thanks, but much of that for which I was grateful revolved around how it made me look, the confidence it gave me, and the security that I found within it. And when life grew hard, when ministry grew difficult, I felt betrayed.

Yet God has only let me play with his swingset, hold his glory. I had an image in my mind this morning, of me blindfolded, in a red room, with my hands both out and a smile on my face. Blue shirt.  THAT’s how I want to be before God. Joyful and grateful, and rejoicing. Like a child at the petting zoo, so excited just to hold whatever I am about to be given (probably a snake). And ready, when it is asked of me, to give it back.

I can find joy in my work, and in my ministry, and I should. But there I cannot find my life. And if I find my life, my approval therein, God would be right and loving to take it from me, that I might return to Him as my fountain of living water.

NPR’s got a rival. God’s in the turkeys, too. Maybe Franklin knew what he was talking about after all.