She must have fallen in the well sometime during the night. Her tiny body lay curled up and exhausted in the dusty gravel.
Daybreak revealed her to my husband as he sat down in his office chair to make his morning calls. When I walked in to talk to him about something, he pointed to window-well – without a word. My eyes grew wide.
We had seen baby rabbits, fledglings, toads and other small animals in the well on occasion. I was used to taking the critters out before the heat of the day became their surmise. I had even rigged up a small staircase for the shrews, made of bricks and a birdcage ladder.
I walked toward the window and saw something much too big for the escape route I had put together. I held my breath and slowly pulled apart the wide slats of the wooden blind. A fawn.
She turned her head toward the window. She was so small, maybe a few days old. Was she injured? She looked so vulnerable and lost. I wondered if her mother was nearby. Usually, adult deer don’t stick around fawns during the day so not to attract predators. There was no way the fawn would be able to crawl out on her own. I closed the blind, grabbed a blanket and headed outside.
I carefully stepped into the well and sat down on the first stair. I did not want to spook her. The fawn lay motionless, following her instinct. In the woods or tall grass, the light spots would have made her nearly invisible. Here, however, she was fully exposed and would have easily attracted a roaming coyote or a courageous fox.
I wondered if she was going to bolt at any second. We both had nowhere to go. I was sure her heartrate matched mine when I stepped down and slowly tucked the blanket around her. I was surprised how little she weighed, not more than a small dog. I climbed out of the well, set her on lawn, and uncovered her. As I expected, she took off running. But instead of running for the woods, she ran toward the road. I had not thought of that when I sat her down facing the in the direction of traffic. Her tiny hoofs hit the pavement just as a car was approaching.
“Oh, dear Lord, please, please, please do not let her get hit.” I pleaded with God and then held my hand over my mouth.
I had felt her body heat through the blanket and looked straight into her deep dark, brown eyes. In this accidental encounter, she had somehow become my responsibility. I was now part of this rescue mission – if I wanted it or not. But instead of being safe, she was now in even more danger than she was before. Was I now going to watch her die?
Deer roam our yard all year around. They have eaten my Hydrangeas, mowed down a large patch of Black-eyed Susan, and gorged on every lily I have ever planted. Petunias and annuals of any kind seem to be their choice of snack at night when no one is watching. I get angry when I find only nubs of my ornamental shrubs on summer mornings. But despite of all the headache the wildlife brings with it, I never tire of seeing the deer calmly grazing on the dewy lawn at sunrise or dusk.
The sound of the fawn’s hoofs hitting the pavement mingled with the sound of the speeding car. It was almost too much to bear. But then, just as the car was about to hit her, she turned back to the yard and galloped up the small incline of the ditch. There she collapsed on the lawn, only a few feet from me.
My neighbor across the street had watched the whole thing and cheered.
I didn’t waste any time and threw the blanket over her. I carried her in my arms and walked toward the back yard deck where I sat on the steps. We were both exhausted and scared. Slowly, I uncovered her. Those brown eyes stared at me as I gently petted her head and neck. Her light tan coat was smooth.
Tears streamed down my face.
“God. Why?”
I thought of our family story, about adoption, about the trauma and heartache we all had been going through.
Why do children run off? Why do some not return home? Why do we try so hard all our lives to create safe spaces while danger and death seem to be more alluring? Why is it so hard to trust God with those who are in our care?
I want to hang on to my control. I don’t want to let her go. I desperately want to keep my children from this seductive world and spare them from sure pain and death. I want to sit here with this deer, in this illusion of safety. But deep inside I know these moments are fleeting.
Tears kept coming.
“God. Now what?”
Then I heard it. No. Not something audible, but I heard it nonetheless. Over the years I had come to trust this voice, learned to listen when He spoke.
“Let go.”
“I know,” I whispered, “just a little longer.”
“I am capable. Let go.”
I walked to a row of pines nearby where I unwrapped her among the dense branches. At first, she bent her front legs and stayed in that position for a few moments. Then, she slowly tucked her entire body into the foliage. She immediately blended in. I walked away while tears kept coming.
When I checked in on her about an hour later, she had left her safe place in the pines. In the neighbor’s yard, in the tall grass, I noticed a large doe – behind her a fawn. Both slowly disappeared among the trees.
“Do you know when the mountain goats give birth? Do you observe the calving of the does? Can you number the months that they fulfill, and do you know the time when they give birth, when they crouch, bring forth their offspring, and are delivered of their young? Their young ones become strong; they grow up in the open, they go out and do not return to them.”
—God, Job 39:1-4
Heidi Viars 
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