Wild Awakening: How a Raging Grizzly Healed My Wounded Heart - Hardcover

Über die Autorinnen und Autoren

Greg J. Matthews has been an US Air Force and civilian firefighter, emergency medical technician, special operations rescue technician, rescue helicopter pilot, fugitive recovery agent, World Trade Center attack first responder, and international consultant on emergency management and security. He currently serves as the US Army Corps of Engineers Southwestern Division antiterrorism officer. He is the founder of Chase What Matters ministry (ChaseWhatMatters.today). He lives in Plano, Texas, with his wife of seventeen years, Rhea, sons Casey and Benjamin, and daughter Ciara.

James Lund is an award-winning collaborator, editor, and author who enjoys helping people develop their voice and message. He is a publishing veteran who has worked with bestselling authors, public figures, and leaders including Max Lucado, George Foreman, Tim Brown, Kathy Ireland, Jim Caviezel, and others. Three of his projects have earned the ECPA Gold Medallion Award. He lives with his wife, Angela, and children in Central Oregon, where he enjoys hiking, rafting, softball, and performing music with friends.

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Wild Awakening

1

SON SHINE AND STORM

They say that abandonment is a wound that never heals. I say only that an abandoned child never forgets.

—MARIO BALOTELLI

I took a few stealthy steps and stopped. With each breath, white puffs rose from my lips into the crisp morning air. Ahead of me, stretching to rolling hills in the distance, was a mostly desolate landscape dotted with sagebrush, cactus, and sand as far as the eye could see. I was in the sprawling Mojave Desert. My grip tightened on the rifle in my hands and I slowly turned my head, straining my eyes for the slightest sign of movement. I was on safari, a mighty hunter at last.

It was December 27, 1974. I was nearly eight years old. My weapon was a brand-new Marlin .22. My quarry was the mighty jackrabbit.

I trembled with excitement. How many hours on how many nights had I lain in the upper berth of my bunk bed at home, staring at the posters of deer and bears I’d put up on my wall, imagining this day? Yet the best part wasn’t being in the outdoors or the anticipation of hunting game for the first time, though each of these was a prize in itself. Nope, the real reward was sharing this moment with the broad-shouldered man who stood next to me.

Dad.

Roger Matthews, son of a World War II air force veteran, was a former Marine infantryman who these days wore the beige uniform of a California Highway Patrol officer. He was an imposing figure: six-foot-one, with an athletic build, a military haircut, and gray eyes that often seemed to bore through you. In many ways, he led his family—my mom, Elizabeth, and my younger brothers, Shane, age six, and Matt, age three—the way a sergeant might lead his platoon. When Dad told you to do something, there was no discussion or negotiation, and you’d better be getting started by the time he finished telling you. You addressed his friends and acquaintances as “sir.” If you weren’t fifteen minutes early, you were late. Good manners were required at all times. Dad wasn’t mean and we weren’t in boot camp, but the sense of military structure was undeniable.

To me, this was simply who my father was. His disciplined approach to life and our family made perfect sense to him and to me. It was one of the things that enabled him to do a dangerous job. Each time my father walked out of the house in the morning, that seven-point gold badge on his chest and pistol holstered at his side, I nearly burst with pride. He was a man who could handle himself, a man who took on the bad guys each day and won, a man people could count on.

He was my hero. I wanted to be just like him.

By the time of our rabbit hunt in the desert, Dad had spent three years teaching me gun safety, how to aim, and how to clean a rifle. I’d already joined him on many hunts for quail and jackrabbits. Some days he’d pick me up early from kindergarten in his bright red Ford Bronco, drive out to a ravine on the back side of Big Bear Lake, and set up beside some boulders. My job was spotter and retriever. When I saw a flight of doves coming into range, I alerted Dad, who shot the birds out of the sky. I then ran into the bush to retrieve the doves and drop them into a hunting vest. We’d do that until dark. I was more like the hunting dog than the hunter, but I didn’t mind. I loved those outings, just Dad and me and the great outdoors.

Sometime during the last few months, I’d decided I was old enough to hunt with Dad using a rifle of my own. Every Saturday that fall, I walked to the local library and pored over the latest editions of Field & Stream, Outdoor Life, and Sports Afield magazines. I was searching for my weapon of choice—a Marlin .22 semiautomatic with a clip. I thought if I found one on sale, it would be easier to convince Dad to buy me one for Christmas.

I’d already made my wishes known. My Christmas list had only two items: the Marlin rifle and a box of ammo. I’d set my heart on getting that rifle. I was like Ralphie, the boy who longed for a Red Ryder BB gun in the movie A Christmas Story. I’m amazed no one told me I’d shoot my eye out.

But Dad never gave me the slightest hint that he was thinking about it. Whenever I brought it up, he’d say, “Well, I’m not sure about that yet.” By Christmas Eve I’d pretty much resigned myself to disappointment—it seemed the Marlin was not in my future. I tossed and turned in my bed that night. The numbers on the digital clock on my nightstand seemed frozen in place. I finally fell asleep at 2 a.m., then woke up three hours later. Fearing the worst but no longer able to contain myself, I crept down the dark hallway and into a room shimmering with Christmas magic.

My eyes first took in the five stockings tacked to the fireplace mantel, the material stretched and bulging from goodies hidden inside. Below, a gas fire was already glowing. Then I swept my gaze to the left and saw our Christmas tree, which was decorated with shining multicolored lights and surrounded by a mountain of presents. I quickly scanned the pile of packages. I knew the shape I was looking for—only it wasn’t there.

But when I stepped forward and looked behind the tree, I saw it. A long, slender box leaned against the wall. Could it be? I hurried over to inspect the tag. It read: “From Santa.” But who was it for?

This has to be it, I thought. But what if it’s not? It must be mine. But maybe it isn’t. My emotions bounced back and forth like a Ping-Pong ball.

Every year, Dad insisted that we kids open our biggest Christmas presents last. After everyone got up, I unwrapped a dozen packages, but my eyes never strayed long from that tall present. Finally, Dad grinned and said the words I’d been waiting to hear: “Greg, that box against the wall is for you.” I tore off the paper and found exactly what I’d dreamed of. In the reflection of the Christmas tree lights, the Marlin rifle’s barrel glinted like gold.

Dad had come through.

Now, two days later, I was finally in the desert with my father, ready to test my hunting skills against whatever nature had to offer. My legs shook with anticipation. We stood side by side, each of us scanning the terrain ahead. Suddenly, from the corner of my right eye, I caught a flash of movement. A jackrabbit!

“Dad!” I yelled. I pulled the Marlin’s stock to my shoulder.

But the crafty jackrabbit had accelerated to Mach 2 and was already fifty yards away. I had no chance at a shot. Then I realized it wouldn’t have mattered anyway—I’d forgotten to flip the rifle’s safety off.

“Hold on, Greg,” Dad said in a quiet voice. “You’ll get your chance at him.” Then he explained the secret of rabbit hunting: “They always run in a circle to get behind the threat that’s chasing them. If we turn 180 degrees and start walking back, we’ll run into him again.”

That’s just what we did, with Dad in the lead. And he was right. Not a hundred yards from where we’d started, Dad raised his hand and signaled me forward. Now I was really shaking. I drew up close to Dad and sighted along his outstretched arm. Twenty-five yards away, I saw the silhouette of ears through a clump of sagebrush.

Dad nudged me forward. “There he is, Greg, your first rabbit,” he whispered. “Remember, just squeeze the...