By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
The deer in my yard have become unfazed by me. While they’re casually snacking beneath the feeder, I can come out the back door and their heads will pop up. They stare, and after what they apparently feel is a sufficient pause, they return to their food.
Now, in the mornings when I’m taking my daughter to school, they’ve begun to feel about us much the way we feel—though perhaps more affectionately—about them: simply part of the scenery. With countless oak trees on our property, our deer are often out perusing acorns in the early hours as we make our trek. They stop and stare as we drive by, and despite the horrid history between deer and vehicles, they seem unbothered by us meandering down the driveway. I’ve even seen them wag their tails as we pass. They carry on peacefully.
I need to be more like a deer.
Lately, things have been—well, for lack of a better word—chaotic. My life has become the epitome of that old saying about “the best laid plans,” with months of carefully arranged agendas going sour like a week-old glass of milk left lounging in the July sun. When you have things scheduled that you’re genuinely looking forward to, and you watch helplessly as all your preparations shatter and fall to the ground, it takes a toll.
When those plans are thwarted by your child becoming unexpectedly—and a bit inexplicably—ill, that toll deepens. Of course, sickness happens, and there is often very little one can do about it. This time, though, it stirred a nasty mixture of worry, stress, concern, confusion, and disappointment within me. The result was a rather stormy atmosphere inside my own head. Writing it out now, it seems like it wasn’t such a big deal, but at the time my mind certainly didn’t feel that way.
I shouldn’t have let it take such a toll on me, and I’ll tell you why. I need to pay better attention.
Lately, one particular bit of Scripture has been following me around. It’s a common passage, but in recent weeks it has been everywhere. I’ve heard it in songs, seen it on calendars, and heard it referenced in podcasts and videos. You would think that with my world being so thoroughly peppered with it, I might have put it to better use during trying moments. But then again, one must remember what the 23rd Psalm is about.
Verses about a loving Shepherd, spoken from the viewpoint of a member of the flock, are significant when you consider that sheep are notoriously dim-witted. I relate to this far more than I care to admit. Words of comfort surrounded me, yet I languished in anxiety as though the world were ending. That may be a touch dramatic, but my levels of apprehension were thoroughly uncalled for. Is being overly dramatic a sheep trait as well? It seems entirely possible.
I think I need to be less sheep and more deer—specifically, the deer in my yard.
They have every reason to be afraid when a human appears, yet they take note without panic. Though history tells them that proximity to vehicles can end badly, the deer I see acknowledge me and somehow understand that, despite appearances, they are safe. Why do they behave in ways so uncharacteristic of deer around humans?
They know they’ve been provided for. They haven’t been harmed in the ways deer usually are. They know—through lived experience—that they have no reason to fear, because someone, or in this case three someones, cares for them.
Writing this makes things painfully clear, and I am ashamed. When my surroundings feel threatening or uncertain, I become the deer from elsewhere—the ones that dart about in frantic distress, white tail flagging wildly. I shouldn’t. I have a Shepherd who has done far more than set out a bit of food and leave me to fend for myself.
He is the same One David sang about thousands of years ago. He is still leading and comforting today. He still has the authority to make enemies so unconcerning that you can eat in front of them. He even makes the valley of the shadow of death a place that need not inspire fear.
If I can just get it through my thick sheep brain that all the distress I wallowed in came from my refusal to trust that He was still there—still leading me—then perhaps I can finally make it to greener pastures and still waters in spite of myself.
Prose and Possibilities 