Once I was tracting in a secluded forested area. The whole area had an eerie, almost ghost town-ish feel to it. I came to a home with a fence and gate. It looked like any south Texas home. Burglar bars, frame house sitting on cinder blocks, a metallic plaque displaying the family name and a Virgin of San Juan reference, all signs of a regular household. I opened the gate and started walking toward the house. As a missionary you grow used to keeping an eye out for dogs. Especially in south Texas, where you have to deal with a disproportionate number of pit bulls. I was wary as always, but nothing could have prepared me for what happened next. As I neared the porch, from the side of the house, screaming like Satan himself, came a giant goose waddling full bore with its great demon wings outstretched. I squealed like a girl and bolted for the safety of the gate, reaching it just in time to escape the goose's snapping beak. I stood there with my companion for a moment, quietly contemplating the goose that was still honking for blood. Then, with heads hung low, we continued on to the next house.
The goose who stopped the gospel.
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