An Unusual Thing

You Don't See This Everyday

Yesterday a most unusual thing happened. Sherry and I had picked the day’s CSA produce and I cleaned it and generally readied it for the bags. Sherry was taking some pictures to accompany the blog, all pretty normal stuff. Our friend, Tracy Cox, was due to arrive soon; she delivers to the Indy area for us, and she was going to help me do the Florida weave on the tomatoes. No, the Florida weave is not a new hairstyle for my flowing locks. It’s a trellising method. So, quit giggling.

Man, was it hot outside. To quote my mother-in-law, Pat, it was “air you can wear” hot. It was so hot that when I went into town I saw a fire hydrant chasing a dog. That’s a joke, son. Well anyhoo, Tracy arrived and we visited for a bit. Sherry had some chapters to write and was supposed to stay out of the gardening project. I, on the other hand, was trying to stall long enough for a thunder storm to roll in that would excuse me from having to go back out into that heat and humidity. My sloth was foiled, however, when no storm appeared and Tracy piped up that she “loved the heat.” Wouldn’t you know it. That left me no cover. So, out we went into the unforgiving blast furnace leaving Sherry behind in the cool air conditioning, all the while I was doing a rain dance in my head to summon an immediate shower. I hoped for rain with every step, and with every step came despair. 

We proceeded to gather fence posts, stakes, and twine for the trellising task. The twine itself, green and in a can that has a twine cutting device built directly into the lid for maximum convenience, would prove to be worthless for my Florida weave partner. She preferred to bypass this costly accessory in favor of, well, I don’t know what she was going to cut the twine with, I just know she had a lot of twine out and tied a knot with the twine never leaving the can. This she got done before I realized she had opted out of the built-in cutter. I offered my knife, the string was severed and there was a new-found appreciation for the built-in twine cutter that lay at her fingertips all along.

We weaved on, down the opposite way we had just come, back and forth, back and forth through the young tomato plants with all their promise of an Indiana, sun-drenched, summer-time treat. Getting to about the middle of the return pass, I heard a sound that I thought was a bird, but I couldn’t recall hearing this bird sound in the past. After a couple of more high-pitched bleat, bleat, bleat’s with a cadence that was getting faster, I looked toward the location of the unfamiliar sound. What I saw was one of those things, one of those unusual things you don’t see everyday, sometimes not in a lifetime. Like when you find one of your pet baby button quail’s stuck inside the jar of a chick feeder, and the first thing you notice is a teeny, tiny, shiny leg reaching from the bottom of the feeder into the jar, and you can’t tell there is anything attached to that leg. It’s hard to wrap your mind around it at first. It sends your brain into double-time, throwing switches and levers, changing tracks, and throwing more coal into the hopper--you know what I mean. Man, it just don’t compute for a minute. 

After a second of brain double-clutching, I realized, like some of you have probably already figured out, whatever was making the sound was running straight towards us. Yes, I said running. Running towards us with a mission was a fawn on willowy legs and covered in white spots, frightened but hopeful that we, perhaps, were it’s mother or at least a safe alternative. The fawn, probably no older than a few weeks, came to within four feet of Tracy. I believe the fawn would have come all the way up to her had Tracy, knowing of the full power of a two-and-a-half-foot tall, three-and-a-quarter-inch wide, white-spotted fawn with their man-crushing bicuspids, big clown-like ears, and oh those cartoonishly large eyes, stopped it right in its tracks with her soft as an angel’s voice, ”Hey little fellow” before it could inflict any damage to her or I. I wasn’t aware that she spoke “deer” or could do the Florida weave so well, but for both of these I am thankful.

The little Fawn moved over and away from us and we watched as it disappeared, still bleating frantically while walking into the thick weeds. It had no sooner disappeared from sight when I caught, out of the corner of my eye, a doe that was just as frantic as the fawn had been, coming to rescue her wayward baby. With a grunt from mom, the two were silent in their reunion.

I think to myself, it’s just like God and us. We are often like the fawn, noisy and lost, but our Savior is never far away. We may feel lost, but He will gather us up, just call out. Like the fawn, it may seem to take longer than we would like, but He is there, sure as the momma deer was there for the fawn. Don’t give up, keep calling.

I poked some fun at Tracy in this blog entry. In all honesty I do really, really appreciate her help with the tomatoes and feel blessed to have shared this wonderful event with her. Thanks Tracy.

Well I’m done talk’n. -- Matt