My hands were shaking as I took the gun.
The .243 was heavy and awkward as I held it against my shoulder. I cocked my head to peer through the scope and wrapped my finger gingerly around the trigger.
I took a deep breath and tried to relax. The world stopped for a moment.
Then I fired.
The shot rang in my ears for a second, and there was a strange, slightly unpleasant burning smell.
"Good job," said our friend Kevin encouragingly, stepping toward me and carefully taking the rifle.
I gave it up more reluctantly than I would have predicted, as my husband prepared to take his turn.
For there is something strangely (and surprisingly) thrilling about shooting.
I suppose, chemically, it might just be the pleasing effects of adrenaline. It felt lovely to be out in the fresh afternoon air, mastering this powerful skill. But the excitement was tempered by solemn seriousness. And in large part, the adrenaline was the result of a heavy realization, the recognition of a scary potential for harm.
It is not often that I hold the power to take life so easily, possibly without even meaning to.
Yet at some point I decided that I wanted to learn how to safely handle a gun. I was thinking about what it would be like to need a gun in an emergency, to have one, but not to know how to shoot it.
And now, after handling one, I am happier than ever to live in Canada...where gun laws are tough.
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