Dad, do you think God is trying to tell you something?" I asked as we prepared to go moose hunting early one cold November morning.

Things hadn't been going well on my family's northern Alberta pig farm, and Dad's office job with an airline just wasn't fulfilling. It seemed he was doomed to struggle at everything he tried. Either that, or God had something in mind that Dad didn't want to consider.

"I don't know, April," was his guarded reply. But I pressed on.

"Do you think he wants you to go back into the ministry?" There, it was out. Mom and I had talked this over numerous times and agreed that he was a gifted pastor. Nevertheless, he'd been out of the pastorate for 10 years and out of full-time ministry for two.

My question provoked only silence. I knew I'd pushed far enough. The topic never came up again.

The following week, back at Mountain View Bible College in Didsbury, I prayed earnestly and often for Dad and Mom. "God, please direct them in the way you want them to go. Please get Dad's attention."

The next Friday morning, November 11, one week after Dad and I had been hunting, my voice lesson was interrupted by a knock at the door. Two professors and a counselor walked in and surrounded me. I instantly felt sick.

"Your dad has been in a hunting accident." I looked into each face as they watched the horror spread across mine. "He's in the Athabasca Hospital. They have to rush him to the city (Edmonton)." They began praying as I stood there in shock.

How bad was it? I had to know more. How? Where? Why? I couldn't concentrate. I just needed to get to my dad. They finished praying, and I scrambled for the door. "I have to go. I need to pack".

I tried to push past, but Carolyn, the counselor, took my arm and led me to the dorm. An announcement over the campus loudspeaker stopped us mid-stride: "April, you have a phone call in the Administration Building." I ran as fast as I could to the secretary's desk.

As I was handed the phone, my own fears mounted as I listened to the fear in my grandmother's voice. "How are you doing, honey?"

"Grandma, where's Dad?"

"He's on the way to Edmonton by ambulance."

"Is he going to live? How bad was he hurt?"

Silence.

"Grandma?"

"He was shot through the chest. It's really bad." I screamed and collapsed on the floor. My father was a dead man. No one could survive a high-powered rifle shot through the chest. "Who shot him?"

"Roy."* The anger and pain was so tight in my chest I couldn't breathe. Shot by his own friend? I didn't understand.

"Aunt Janette is coming to pick you up. We'll see you when you pick us up. Pray as you come. He's in God's hands, so we must pray."

Praying! That's the cause of this mess. I prayed to get Dad's attention, but this wasn't much of an answer. You can't get someone to listen if they're dead.

But as I left the office, in between the questions in my head, I did pray: "God, where are you in this? Please, you can't take him, not yet!"

The drive north to Edmonton took almost three hours, including the stop to pick up my grandparents. The car was so quiet. No one said Dad would be okay, and I knew why. No one expected him to survive. I noticed Grandma was praying, and I desperately began bargaining with God.

As we walked down the corridors of the city hospital, I felt like I was about to be read a death sentence. Finally, I saw my mother. We ran to each other, embraced, and cried. She'd been crying a lot, I could tell. But she also had a peace I could sense but couldn't understand.

"Mom, what's going on? When can I see Dad?"

"He'll be in surgery for at least four hours. You won't be able to see him until after that." She then told me the story.

Dad and Roy had split up to flush out moose on our property. Roy thought he saw one in the willows as he headed back to the meeting point around daybreak. He observed the movement for several minutes, believed it to be a moose, and fired. He hit my father, who'd been hiding in the heavy brush.