Soon there will be another American who will be armed, another citizen ready to defend self, home and loved ones with a lethal weapon. How did this come to be? What we will do is to take you through the evolution of an eager concealed carry person, who really never dreamed of strapping on a loaded firearm. If you haven’t figured it out, that person is me.
Although I began life in a small county in Iowa, this story properly begins on a farm in north central Missouri. We were the poorest of the poor, and I recall a childhood of wearing ragged clothes, and going barefoot most of the time, unless Mom made us sandals of cardboard. Most of my clothes hung on me as they were worn-out hand-me-downs from my older and bigger brother. Church mice were more affluent than we were. (Okay — some of that is hyperbole.)
We, in a more rustic era, were forced to improvise in our play time, using our imagination to keep ourselves amused. One of our cherished times was listening to the radio; one of our favorites was The Lone Ranger. Our family would sit in a semicircle facing a radio placed on a table in the corner, and we would be transported back to the days of yesteryear when we would hear the iconic line, “Hiyo, Silver, away!”, as our hero and his faithful companion, Tonto, rode off to defeat the bad guys.
This led to our pretending to have those mystical items, guns. First, of course, we would just point our deadly fingers at each other (just my brother and me, my sister was too refined for such stuff) and whoever got off, “Bang! bang! you’re dead!” won. The slowest was supposed to fall over. We would argue over who was the good guy and who was the crook/Indian — usually my brother took the more favorable role because he was larger and stronger.
We graduated to that most fascinating of weapons, the cap gun. For those of you too young to remember such, these facsimiles of handguns would have a roll of “caps” which were places with a small amount of gunpowder in them. When you pulled the trigger, the hammer would hit the right spot and a small “pop” was heard and some smoke was seen. When Mom and Dad finally bought one for each of us, we were in hog heaven. Of course, our duels quickly depleted our meager supply of caps, and we reverted back to the shouted, “Bang, bang! You’re dead!”
Next came the b-b guns. Favorite of many boys were the Red Ryder b-b rifles. It took a heap of begging before our parents gave in and got us one — just one. And as you can imagine, my big brother used it most of the time. We would have contests on accuracy, which I lost almost all of the time. I suspected that he practiced when I wasn’t around and so got more proficient with the weapon.
“Don’t point that thing at your brother, or else!” That phrase was repeated to us incessantly, so we didn’t. However, we were allowed to target that most foul of fowl, the blue jay. I am still in a fog over why blue jays were fair game to kill, but not sparrows. Sparrows so outnumbered the blue jays, we could shoot them all day long.
Dad had two little .22 rifles to be used for varmints, bolt-action single shot guns. My brother and I had little to do with them, except for a forgettable experience which shall remain hidden in the midst of time. (No, we did not shoot at each other!)
But then came the inevitable. Guns lost their fascination for me when I discovered baseball. My love affair with the St. Louis Cardinals dimmed my enthusiasm for the guns. I became obsessed with becoming the next Hall of Fame second baseman for that team. Alas — doomed to be too short, too slow and weak a weak arm, my dreams were shattered.
It was during my teen years that one gun caught my fancy. Granddad Fish had a beautiful .22 rifle, with a hex barrel and pump-action. When visiting their farm in Iowa, I had a chance to go hunting with Granddad. We were on a quest for rabbits for Grandma to dress and cook. I managed to beg for and get the little .22 for my weapon of rabbit destruction, and Granddad took a 410 shotgun for his. With several brush piles that held rabbit warrens, prey for the intrepid hunters was aplenty.
We had a little dog with us, and his yapping quickly scared up a cottontail. With absolute confidence in my ability to slay the “dragon”, I pulled up and fired. Once — a miss; twice, another miss. Ready for another try, I heard the 410 discharge, and the rabbit fell. Just a quirk, I thought, for mine was the more attractive weapon. But after three more episodes that mirrored the first, I realized that that old man (Granddad) was a better shot, or my gun was not shooting straight. Only after he had explained the difference in single bullets (my gun) and shot (his) did I realize he was having some fun at my expense. (More about this .22 later on.)
Over the next few decades a couple of rifles came and went. One was a “sporterized” Enfield .303, the other a black powder muzzle loader.
My saga continued with the acquisition of the two weapons that now constitute my entire arsenal. I call it an arsenal in deference to my two brothers, one older and the other several years younger. Each of them could arm a small cadre of survivalists, and since they both live in the wilds of New Mexico, could probably hold off entire infantry units with the amount of firepower they could bring, especially if they holed up in one of the mountain ranges there.
Back to my collection. The first was a .38 calibre Taurus revolver, a five shot version of that pistol. Getting that was almost an afterthought in a transaction with a friend of ours. This woman also has a huge selection of firearms, which gives her a sense of security since she lives alone in the country. We had an aging Ford Ranger, and when she expressed interest in purchasing it, we swapped pickup for cash and that gun. Of course, I shot the gun for practice, and then just put it in a closet. That was more than twenty years ago. My second acquisition was Granddad’s .22 hex barrel rifle, with a pump-action. It would be nice to say that I inherited it, but this was not the case. I had wanted it since Granddad died, but of course it went to his only son, my Uncle Fred. When discussing the rifle one time, he offered it to me — at a price. Since I thought this was an heirloom, it bugged me that it had to be bought, but I swallowed my pride and paid his price. Again, my use of it consisted of making sure it was still operable.
Since this is Illinois, I dutifully applied for and got my Firearm Owners Identification Card (known now as a FOID card) so I would be legal and not have the weapons confiscated by the state. Being a concealed gun carrier never really took root for a while. First, Illinois did not allow for concealed carry. In fact, we were the last of the 50 states to allow such, and only then it took a federal lawsuit and a directive from the court for the legislature to enact the necessary laws for such to happen. And, since we are a deep blue state, the “necessary laws” were made as onerous as possible, stopping just short of violating the court’s directive. Even today, Illinois is one of the three states that are the hardest for citizens to qualify for concealed carry. (One of the other two is California, but many believe that is a foreign country, so it doesn’t count!)
So, what, after so long a time of my interest in firearms being dormant, sparked the burning desire for me to become a gun-toting parson? Probably some of this was percolating just beneath the surface. Since I am a devourer of news, local, domestic and foreign, stories of the mass shootings and terrorists attacks seemed to dominate the news cycles. In the United States, when such were carried out with firearms, the anti-gun activists were out in force. One happened in a Baptist Church in Sutherland Springs, Texas. Some such atrocities occurred in schools, with the latest being the killings in Parkland, Florida. So much attention was given to those who wanted to curtail the right to “keep and bear” arms after that shooting that it bordered on the nonsensical.
In the Parkland tragedy, those advocating for more gun control (specifically the banning of so-called “assault weapons”) focused on blaming the National Rifle Association (NRA) and called those members terrorists. Also blamed were politicians who had accepted campaign donations from the NRA, even to accusing a Senator from Florida of having “blood on his hands” because of those donations. Ignored in the frenzy to confiscate our guns was the fact that virtually all of the mass killings by firearms would not have happened if existing laws had been enforced, for the perpetrators would not have been able to purchase the weapons. In addition, in many of the cases, signs were seen that the killers were unstable individuals, signs that were not followed up on.
I guess I just snapped. My first action was to become a member of the NRA, just as a protest. Then, when I noticed that a concealed carry class was offered by a local man, I signed up. Enduring 16 hours of training, which included several hours of shooting my .38 for the first time in over twenty years, I even passed the “marksmanship” part of the shooting, probably because no one told me that “round” of shooting was the qualifying round.
My CCL has now been applied for and now I am eagerly awaiting its arrival in the mail so I can become part of the legion of Americans who can “bear arms” legally.
On a more serious note, how can someone who preaches peace and love justify having a lethal weapon on his person? My rational is rooted in Scripture, and with three examples, we find the Bible allows God’s people to defend themselves.
From the Old Testament, when Nehemiah and the exiles from Babylon came back to rebuild the walls of Jerusalem, there was opposition to their work, from domestic and foreign entities. Listen to the words of Nehemiah: Nehemiah 4:13,14 — Therefore I positioned men behind the lower parts of the wall, at the openings; and I set the people according to their families, with their swords, their spears, and their bows. 14And I looked, and arose and said to the nobles, to the leaders, and to the rest of the people, “Do not be afraid of them. Remember the Lord, great and awesome, and fight for your brethren, your sons, your daughters, your wives, and your houses.”
When Jesus was confronted by those who would arrest him, in the Garden of Gethsemane, this is what happened: John 18:10 — Then Simon Peter, having a sword, drew it and struck the high priest’s servant, and cut off his right ear.
Why was Peter armed with a sword? Common sense tells us that self-defense may have been needed, and Peter was ready for any assault on the small band of disciples. We know that Jesus rebuked his apostle, not for defending Him, but for not understanding why this arrest was necessary for the plan God had for Him.
Remember when Jesus drove the money changers out of the temple? He used a whip, a weapon against those who would desecrate God’s house. He was the forerunner of Lash LaRue (how many remember him?)
It seems clear to me that when Thomas Jefferson wrote that one of the “unalienable” rights was to life, and that, according to the Second Amendment to the Constitution, the right to bear arms to defend that right is allowed in God’s universe.
Perhaps one day in the future, when you drive by the Redmon Christian Church in Redmon, Illinois, you will see a sign that reads: Protected by God and Glock! Maybe you will be lucky, and be there on a Sunday that has been proclaimed, “Bring your gun to Church day!”
My saga is complete, from dirt poor farm boy to a gun-toting parson! Isn’t America great?