Contributed photoMr. Lin, Bill Prince, William, Hunter and a guest with the hounds.

Southerners cherish good stories and good storytellers. Used to be, we would travel far and wide to hear them or a good revivalist preacher. Both are about the same, and if they are any good, both can draw quite a crowd. Every small town has someone who can bend an ear and draw a crowd at gatherings. Every family has one who keeps the stories and history alive, whether true or imagined.

Mr. Lin Vining was one of those men. He was an older gentleman from the era of good bird dogs, quail and manners. He loved tomato gravy, biscuits and hunting. He’d hunt anything, but more than anything, he loved bird hunting, and in his later years, hanging out with us when we would go rabbit hunting on his property. If there was a lull in the races or just a lull in the thought process even, Mr. Lin would start up on a story about growing up or a quail hunt from long ago. Sometimes they had a wholesome and honorable theme and sometimes they would be rib splitting and funny about something that we shouldn’t really discuss. Mr. Lin was a man of diverse interests and thoughts. 

Well, one cold day we were about to eat a feast of a lunch. Bill Prince, our resident prayer-giver, and the de facto leader of our ragtag band was just finishing giving thanks when Mr. Lin said, “I’ve got to tell y’all about what happened the other day.” Now, where we are all from saying, “just the other day,” can mean anything from literally yesterday to more than six months ago and the longer the drawl the person has, the longer that time can stretch. 

“My wife was putting a pot of butter beans and some cornbread on the table for supper. She looked up and out the front window and exclaimed, “Yonder comes Jesus!” 

“Woman, what are you talking about,” I said. 

“Yonder comes Jesus!,” she exclaimed once again. 

“Well, I went to the door and looked out and sure enough … Yonder comes Jesus. Now, what it was was the hippie across the road dragging a cross he made of a huge old cypress tree he had gotten from only Lord knows where and wanted to give to us. He was shoeless, shirtless, had long hair, and was wearing nothing but cut-off blue jeans. Looked just like Jesus dragging his cross across the road.”

We lost Mr. Lin last year along with Bill Prince. I can still hear Bill laughing and Mr. Lin exclaiming loudly whenever a briar got him, “Lord a mighty! That’s a new briar! Ain’t never stuck no one before!” 

Yesterday, as we hunted on a piece of property I once walked with Mr. Lin, I thought about his stories, his life and a friendship that meant so much. 

If I was of a more theological bent or a sky pilot of renown, I might create a sermon series about that story. I mean, what better exclamation for a Sunday morning than “Yonder comes Jesus”? Perhaps that is what we should take from the story. In the end, we never know when our time is up. In the end, we may never know if this is our last hunt, our last hug from that person, the last conversation we will ever have with them or them with us. 

Certain things will forevermore be changed because of the absence of a person and not momentarily because of work or a grandchild’s birthday party (the only acceptable reasons to miss a fishing or hunting trip). To lean against a tall pine and not hear the words you are so accustomed to. To sit down on a log with a cup of coffee and a dip to not be chided about your bad habits by a good friend with habits just as bad.

Death is a companion in this world. A quietly stalking figure that taps each one of us on the shoulder at some point. We spend treasure and time to delay the tap. We pray for him to take us rather than our wife or child. We pray for him to visit another but not our family and friends. Yet he is with us always. 

In any case when a few of us meet up someone will, without doubt, exclaim “Yonder comes Jesus!” —Outdoors columnist James Pressley can be reached at pressleyoutdoors@gmail.com .