the empty tomb and the empty hunt

Sometimes Empty Is Exactly the Point

April 5, 2026

 I was supposed to stay back that morning.

 

The plan was simple. Wade’s friend was going to hunt with the boys, and I would sit this one out. I had already settled into the idea. Sometimes you are the one carrying the gun, and sometimes you are the one cheering from the sidelines.

 

Then Wade’s friend was a no show.

 

Everything changed.

 

The second I heard, my heart picked up. That familiar excitement rushed through me before I could talk myself out of it. Within minutes I was dressed, grabbing gear, and heading out the door.

 

The lake was calling.

 

It always does.

 

Of all the places I hunt, this one feels the most like home. Not because it is easy. Actually, it is the opposite. The ridges are steep. The walks are long. Every hunt feels earned. Your legs burn. Your lungs work. The woods ask something of you before they give anything back.

 

Maybe that is why I love it so much.

 

The boys were starving and talking about breakfast long before we ever reached the parking lot. Like most teenage boys, food seemed far more important than the hunt itself. So the Golden Arches greeted them with warm biscuit sandwiches and full belley.

 

Simple things.

 

Ordinary things.

And somehow part of the memory.

 

Before we stepped off into the darkness, we stopped.

 

No talking.

 

No rushing.

 

Just three hunters standing beneath the stars.

 

Heads bowed.

 

The world still.

 

We thanked Jesus for the empty tomb. For the sacrifice. For the promise fulfilled. For doing exactly what He said He would do.

 

And quietly, in my own way, I thanked Him for another day with my boys.

 

The older they get, the more I understand what a gift that really is.

 

Then we started walking.

 

The cold hit first.

 

The wind slipped through every layer we wore, and each breath carried a bite that reminded us winter had not completely let go. Boots crunched over leaves and gravel before softening as we moved deeper into the timber.

 

The woods felt asleep.

 

Then suddenly they didn’t.

 

As we approached our favorite listening spot, a gobble shattered the silence.

 

Strong.

 

Sharp.

 

Alive.

 

It echoed through the trees and landed squarely in my chest.

 

There are sounds in life that never lose their power.

 

A turkey gobbling at daybreak is one of them.

 

Instantly, every trace of sleep disappeared.

 

We moved closer.

 

Maybe a little too close.

The gray light was just beginning to reveal shapes in the trees. At first they were only shadows. Then outlines. Then unmistakable silhouettes perched high on the limbs.

 

Turkeys.

 

Lots of them.

 

And they were awake.

 

The woods erupted.

 

Clucks.

 

Yelps.

 

Gobbles.

 

The sounds crashed together like waves.

 

One bird answered another. Then another joined in. The entire hillside seemed alive. It felt less like a hunt and more like standing in the middle of something ancient and wild.

 

My heart pounded.

 

This was it.

 

It had to be.

The birds strutted on the limbs, wings drooping, bodies puffed up with confidence. Every movement seemed to scream that they owned the morning.

 

We watched.

 

Waited.

 

Believed.

 

Then they pitched down.

 

Too early.

 

And not toward us.

 

One by one they drifted toward the real hens, exactly as nature intended.

 

We froze, hoping one would turn.

 

Hoping one would make a mistake.

 

Hoping one would choose us.

 

They never did.

 

Close enough to see.

 

Far enough to remain out of reach.

 

The hardest distance in turkey hunting.

 

A few birds became nervous before flying down, and immediately the questions started.

 

Did they see us?

 

Did we move?

 

Did we push too close?

 

Turkey hunters are experts at second guessing themselves.

 

Every hunt becomes a puzzle you replay over and over.

 

Eventually the woods grew quieter.

 

The gobbling faded.

 

The excitement settled into disappointment.

 

Not a dramatic disappointment.

 

Just that slow realization that this morning was not going to unfold the way we had imagined.

 

We waited longer.

 

Walked farther.

 

Tried to cut birds off.

 

Tried to outthink creatures with brains the size of walnuts.

 

As usual, they won.

 

Finally I told the boys to keep going while I headed back toward the truck.

 

Maybe they would strike another bird.

 

Maybe the morning still had one more surprise.

 

As we split up, the woods immediately felt different.

 

Bigger.

 

Quieter.

 

Lonelier.

 

There is something comforting about hearing your kids crunch through leaves beside you. When that sound disappears, you notice.

 

Then my phone buzzed.

 

“I left my call at the base of that big tree.”

 

I stopped and stared at the message.

 

You have got to be kidding me.

 

There are thousands of trees in those woods.

 

Thousands.

 

And somehow I was supposed to find one forgotten turkey call.

 

Frustrated and tired, I turned around and retraced every step.

 

I searched.

 

Nothing.

 

Searched again.

 

Still nothing.

 

Then finally, lying against the base of a tree exactly where it had been left, was the call.

 

Relief.

 

Small but real.

 

While I was on my recovery mission, the boys managed to call in a hen.

 

For a moment, hope returned.

 

But she came alone.

 

No gobbler following behind.

 

No long beard strutting in her tracks.

 

Just her.

 

Yet somehow that felt enough.

 

They stood and watched as sunlight caught her feathers.

 

Bronze.

 

Green.

 

Gold.

 

Each step revealed a different color. She shimmered against the forest floor like a living piece of artwork.

 

No shot.

 

No trophy.

Just beauty.

 

Sometimes that is enough too.

 

When we finally met back up, something had changed.

 

The excitement was gone.

 

But so was the frustration.

 

What remained was peace.

 

The tomb was empty.

 

The hunt was empty.

 

And standing there on Easter morning, neither felt like a loss.

 

The empty tomb changed everything.

 

Because it was empty, we have hope.

 

Because it was empty, we have another day.

 

Another sunrise.

 

Another chance.

 

Another hunt.

Empty is exactly the reason we get to keep going.

 

We raced home to make it to church, carrying the woods with us. The cold air. The gobbles. The disappointment. The lessons.

 

And later that day, Wyatt went back out.

 

Back into the woods.

 

Back into the silence.

 

Back into the possibility.

 

Because he wants to learn.

 

He wants success.

 

He wants to figure things out for himself.

 

And maybe most of all, he wants that solitude only the woods can provide.

 

As I watched him leave, I realized something.

 

Maybe the hunt was never really about the turkey.

 

Maybe it was about the reminder.

 

That sometimes the things that look empty are actually overflowing with purpose.

And sometimes, empty is exactly the point.