The Dusk Deer

I had a vision of a doe. I was at Camp Deerpark walking in the autumn dusk. A doe walked up to me and I knew: she was sent to us because we were in need of meat and God had showed her how to spend her life for us. She laid her head against my chest. Then she knelt and I, standing over her back, took out my knife. With a quick tug, I opened the life flow for our families.

Now I was an observer of myself. It didn’t seem right how we were splaying her legs for the dressing while she felt final sleep descend. It felt wrong that we would hang her for dripping, undignified, an object. Cleaned out till she’s only a thing.

A small thing to right those wrongs: I took her head and arranged it on a beautiful wreath of pine and laurel; an evergreen testament that we knew her generosity and cost. But some said I had fallen to nature worship. Not so, but you cannot be ugly and honor life.

I know this was about two things: the Lamb and what is about to happen. I must learn to honor all sacrifices for by them we all live. They are the origin of grace, at least as it is born in this world. Unless blood is poured out in the effort — the donation, the self-denial, the birthing — none of us shall live or live again.

Thank you Lamb and thank you Doe.