A Good Man Is Hard to Find

Hunting season is quickly approaching, which means I’ll soon be heading north with my husband to Idaho for an elk. While it’s still over 100 degrees every day here in Texas, it’s time to fill the freezers again, which is something so American that it’s hard to understand unless your blood runs deep in this country’s soil. My family has been in America since the 1600s. We’ve been hunting on this land for hundreds of years, and I feel honored to know that the tradition isn’t dying out with my generation.

As long as I can remember, I’ve cared about my family history and the legacy of loyalty, honor, and grit they’ve left behind. Even before I became a mother, I knew I would raise my children to understand the sacrifice it took to give us the tradition of our Catholic faith and admiration for our country.

But nothing could have prepared me for how seeing the Western United States for the first time as an adult would change the way I view marriage and motherhood.

Most hunters know the rules vary from state to state, but this trip required us to leave all the bones of our elk in Idaho. We could only travel back to Texas with boned-out meat. I wanted to take the easy road by flying. My husband thought the best course of action would be driving the meat to our family processor rather than shipping it. We loaded his truck bed with coolers and gear and set off on our adventure.

This trip took us from the mesquite trees and mesas in West Texas to the Raton Pass in New Mexico and the Rocky Mountains in Colorado. I watched the landscape change before me. Just when you thought it would never end, the line between desert and mountain became blurred until it eventually faded away, and greenery from the forests of pine, spruce, and aspen trees exploded from every corner of the windshield. As night crept up and the sun retreated behind the high peaks of the Rockies, the final, direct rays illuminated the snow that lingered on the mountaintops. The sky itself shifted through a rich palette of colors. Near the sun, I saw a deep amber and fiery orange that broke into waves of coral, rose, and soft magenta. Higher up, as the sun broke free from the sky, the deepening blue revealed that the night sky was taking over.

As I studied the painted sky, I became convinced that this was undeniable proof that God placed beauty on this Earth to lift our hearts to Him.

I’ve never been so happy to be outvoted by my husband. The opportunity to see the majesty of our country would have been stripped from us if we had decided to fly. I have seen some beautiful parts of the U.S., but nothing has affected me as deeply as this. This is the land that our families won against overwhelming odds, and here we are freely roaming as the descendants of victors.

All my life, my family has hunted, but our land is in South Texas near the border. My dad would often warn us that something was always lurking out there, looking to cause us pain. I can’t tell you how many times a Texas Dog Pear jumped out and impaled my boot. Still, despite its rough, harsh terrain, which is hardly ever forgiving, I love it with all my heart. My family fought and died to claim ownership of it for us. It’s almost as if knowing that this battle took place for land that most would have considered too perilous to conquer makes the new life that shows up every year that much sweeter. We sit in the stand and watch as mothers bring in their new herd through the dry brush and cactus to feed as if a simple miracle had taken place.

The shot came and went in a fraction of a second, but it was one of those moments when time lingers, not exactly frozen, just slowed down.

Idaho is very different. Yes, there are still dangers, but it seems like a more natural place for life to flourish. There is wildlife everywhere and green trees as tall as buildings. It is nothing like the brown, desert-like land I was used to seeing. I could only imagine what our great-great-grandparents thought about its beauty the first time they witnessed the majesty of the Teton Range as its peaks rose dramatically into the sky, framed by rolling rises, foothills, and forests. I’m sure they were as awestruck as I was. I constantly felt the need to drop to my knees in thanks to God for being there.

While on this trip with my husband, I couldn’t help but notice the similarities between hunting and marriage. We hiked for miles every day through valleys, downed trees, and calf-high brush, but saw nothing. Just when it felt like we might be packing up the truck empty-handed to make the long trip back home, we spotted an elk worth stalking. My husband, who had before been sweetly checking on me as I followed behind him, had now stiffened up. I could physically see the adrenaline flowing through him.

The intimacy of being married to a man allows you to have an understanding of his body language that no one else would be able to notice. I could feel his excitement that the hunt, the one we had been waiting for all week long, was finally on. Still, in the middle of all this, as we were practically running through a small forest of trees and brush chasing the chance to get a clear shot, he would turn back to check on me every few yards. When a massive tree blocked the way, he backtracked and took my hand, ensuring I got over it without incident. He wasn’t even the tiniest bit annoyed at having to do it. He wanted me there to be with him when the moment came.

We spotted the elk and got into position. I wasn’t sure how to handle my role. I knew I was supposed to be his source of support and calm when he finally got a chance to experience what he had been dreaming about for over a year. But to be honest, I have never had to play that role for him while we hunt. In fact, I realized in that moment that I had never been alone with him during a hunt. My dad had always been there as his guide.

We found a patch of smooth land to wait for the elk to come from behind the group of trees he was using as a hiding spot. We could see him through the scope, slowly, cautiously making his way into the open. I said a small prayer, then whispered the same words my dad used to say when I was younger:

“Steady breaths now. The moment is about to be here. This is just like any other game you’ve shot. This is a target on the line. Look for your shot and let your body follow through.”

His demeanor changed at the sound of my voice. That gentle love he provides our family at home, the same love that turned around to check on me in the middle of the chase, was flowing back into him through me. The shot came and went in a fraction of a second, but it was one of those moments when time lingers, not exactly frozen, just slowed down.

I remember thinking that it’s not every day that wives get to experience their husbands like this. I watched him willingly and excitedly march into unfamiliar territory. Sure, it was primal and masculine. But it also rewired how I saw his daily work. He’s not rushing through trees and valleys to provide for us, but the same determination to make our lives worth living is there. He is proud of the work that he does, whether it’s filling our freezer with meat so that our family eats clean or closing a big deal to afford our daily lives. The work he puts into keeping our family safe from harm is honorable.

The fading orange light cascades over the Rockies.Mary Rooke

Marriage is never going to be easy all the time. We often find ourselves stuck behind a proverbial tree, just hoping the other will turn around, their outstretched hand ready to provide the sense of security that is missing. When our four daughters came one right after another, it would sometimes feel like the trees were falling too quickly, but we’ve been blessed that no matter what, both of us have continued to turn back for the other.

Our country feels so broken sometimes. Especially when you look at the growing divide between men and women. Lately, as my daughters grow older, I find myself constantly thinking about what it takes to usher in new generations of Americans. How do I teach them what to look for in a husband when, if I am completely honest with myself, I had no part in choosing? God blessed me. My husband chose me, and I was smart enough not to say no.

And yet, it’s become undeniably clear to me that “America the Beautiful” is not just a song. Our country is not just an idea made up by policy wonks living in D.C. who haven’t experienced real American life in years. It’s the land, the water, the mountain passes, and the valleys that our forefathers tamed. They brought their faith to a wild country and tamed it into a nation fit for future generations. My responsibility to my daughters is not merely to tell them that America is full of wonder and beauty, but also to show it to them. I want them to walk the land their ancestors settled and tamed and grew. They need to feel the soil that sustained the people who came before them to understand that this is their birthright.

I want them to see that the old faith brought to our land is still alive, and that if they live it well, it will provide them with the same prosperity. How well they grasp this truth will shape their ability to recognize the difference between complacency and protection, between fleeting romance and steadfast devotion, between a man who speaks beautifully about responsibility and a man of action who instinctively turns around in the woods to make sure his wife can clear the fallen tree.

When the time comes for them to build families of their own, I pray they find a man who is already reaching out for them when the trees fall.