In the quiet morning, sunlight filters through the canopy of old oak trees, casting soft shadows on the wooded floor. My two-acre Patch o’ Paradise feels like holy ground, especially when the deer appear. They move gently, almost reverently – does, bucks, and fawns wandering among the trees. The fawns, typically making their appearance in June and July, rarely rest alone. They stay close to their mothers, tucked beneath them when still or following carefully when they move. There’s something deeply spiritual in that closeness. Here are a few of the lessons I’ve taken from living on the land they inhabit:

The young fawns remind me of what it means to trust. They don’t know where to go or what to fear – they only know to stay near. I think of Jesus’ words in John 10:14: “I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me.” Faith doesn’t always mean moving confidently. Sometimes it just means staying near the one who knows the way.

Some deer bear marks of hardship – a scrape across the flank, a leg that healed crooked, a broken antler. They don’t hide their injuries, and yet they move with dignity. They are quiet witnesses to the truth that healing is not always perfect, but it is still real. Their presence teaches me that pain doesn’t disqualify us from grace. It can become part of the beauty.

What I notice again and again is that the deer don’t travel alone. Even the wounded ones stay close to the herd. The fawns stick to their mothers, and the older deer move with the others, always aware of who is near. It reminds me that my spiritual life isn’t meant to be lived in isolation. We need companions – those who guide us, walk beside us, and witness our journeys. As Romans 12:5 says,“So we, who are many, are one body in Christ, and individually we are members one of another.” Whether in times of trust, pain, or growth, we are shaped in relationship – with God, with creation, and with each other.

This little patch of woods and my “deer” friends have become my teacher. In the fawns, I see what it means to trust. In the wounded, I see what it means to heal. In their curiosity, I sense God’s own watching presence. And beneath the shelter of these wise old oaks, I remember that I am not alone. I am guided, guarded, and graced.