(This is the fourth part of a series, the first of which you can find here.)
With hearts blessed by wonder, we watched our deer friends, now all quite mobile, come and go as they please. Each time they returned (which was regular, but not too frequent), we too were pleased. Their presence reassured us our wildlife guests understood the retaining wall and fencing weren’t intended for them.
They weren’t always a trio; sometimes, only Momma and one baby would drop in. Occasionally one or two of Momma’s friends joined them. One time Magnolia, alone, took refuge in the middle of our yard during a turbulent storm. Frightened by the heavenly roars, the poor thing’s forehead was rubbed almost raw. Apparently, leaping fences still needed work.
With each deer visit, I offered them corn. By now, Momma, always cautious and sometimes even reluctant, occasionally ate from the container in my outstretched hand. The other adults would watch, marveling at how Momma had us trained. Eventually, one or more of them would nose their way in to help vacuum up the kernels from the ground.
My husband and I were intrigued by the distinct difference in how the deer behaved around their human hosts. Even though they routinely saw him through the window or out in the yard, they always showed some trepidation at his presence, at times threatening to leave.
But me, I continued to be and feel blessed. Momma, Baby, and Magnolia seemed to know my heart, and with that came an ongoing level of trust. By this time, Magnolia and I had a special and curious connection that touched more than the heart. Magnolia at times smelled my hair as I bent to serve dinner; sometimes eating straight from my palm, with an extra lick or two of thanks. In turn, I would steal a pet of the forehead, neck, or body whenever I could.
Despite the lengthening relationship and strengthening bond, every little noise, each sudden movement, even the wind could put them on alert. I understood how their willingness to trust was tempered by an ever-vigilant state of unease; their relationship with me resembled my relationship with God. My spirit animals knew and mirrored me well.
Summer turned to Fall, and by mid-October, Magnolia was showing little antler nubs. Thankfully, he not only knew but eagerly responded to his name, despite its feminine tenor.
Neighborhood walks brought occasional Magnolia sightings. When our paths crossed near the end of the route, Magnolia would follow us home to claim a sure but early meal. The relationship seemed natural, almost normal, and yet outside my own mental yard, I could see just how special and unique it was.
Once Winter cold blew in, our deer family stayed near, with daily visits and a growing entourage. They and their friends were grateful for a regular snack, even when it, morsel by morsel, sifted into the snowy ground.
As Winter gave way to Spring, warm rays of sunshine delivered the promise of all things new. With fresh, tender blades to delight their bellies, Magnolia and family again became more scarce.
Then COVID, a new uncharted season, stormed its way in, dismantling hope for what was to come. It was mid-March, with the city in a virus lockdown, and I had only seen Magnolia once. It seemed as if the wildlife too had received a news alert telling them all to stay home. Recalling other wildlife threats I’d witnessed in the past — road carnage, piercing arrows, coyotes in pursuit — I couldn’t help but worry he too had found Spring to be less than kind.
Mine was a daily awareness of the gift Magnolia brought to my life. Also daily was my worry, wonder, and hope — worrying that something had happened, wondering how far he might have wandered, hoping that if and when he returned, he would recognize and remember me. If he were to somehow be lost to me, might some of the other connectedness and magic I’d been feeling in life also now disappear?
Easter morning I woke early; earlier than normal, not quite 6:00 a.m. Outside the birds were singing their praises for the coming day. I woke to a thought that transformed into a conversation. Who or what I was communing with, I’ll let you decide.
Me: “I wonder where and how Magnolia is. I wish he would show up.”
Countering thought: “You know, you’ve always wished and wondered, but you’ve never outright asked.”
Me: “Hmmm…. You’re right. Okay.”
(Awkward I-don’t-know-how-to-do-this delay.)
“Oh dear God, please bring Magnolia to me so I know he’s still here and safe.”
After pausing then pondering whether that was enough, I told myself to “get up and go look.”
But then, as though my pillow was whispering in my ear: “It’s too early and I’m tired. If I get up now, I won’t be able to get back to sleep.”
Countering thought: “But if you don’t get up now and go look, you’ll never know. He could’ve been there all along.”
And so, with that, I got up, slid into my slippers, grabbed my glasses, and headed to and out the back door. Two steps out onto the patio, my gaze was pulled to the left, to the neighbor’s yard. There, in the middle of the yard and facing me, was a deer. In my heart, I knew. “Magnolia? Magnolia, is that you?” Without hesitation, the deer walked toward me, jumped the fence, and within seconds Magnolia was there to eat from my hand. My heart was overjoyed and my eyes filled with tears.
It was Easter, early Easter morning. The morning I finally, with bold intention, asked God, only to realize He may have been there all along.
© 2021 HSE
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