Growing up near the mouth of Ogden Canyon in Utah, I was accustomed to nature. I lived on a two-lane road, Canyon Road, and we were close to the foothills that lay beneath the beautiful Wasatch Mountains. Wild pheasant would scatter from the underbrush when I walked through the orchards that surrounded my home. Meadow larks sang through my bedroom window. Wild deer would bound from the field across the road from us and through our yard to the orchard, where I always imagined they were going home to the mountains.
There was a place at the back of the orchard, up against the foothills, where the tall grasses would be matted down. I came to know that the deer would sleep there. I tried and tried to find the deer resting there, to no avail. So one very early morning, I crept out of my warm bed, and still wearing my flannel pajamas, I slipped on my shoes and made my way in the dark to that magical place: Where the deer lay.
There was dew on the wildflowers and weeds and my pajama legs were becoming damp when I reached the bottom of the foothills. Sadly, there were no deer there. I had such a longing to make friends with these wild creatures that I lay down where I imagined a deer had lain. I was startled to find that the ground was warm, as though a deer had just left its "bed." I lay there, breathing in the crisp, morning air. The canyon winds came up and whistled through the orchard, bringing the scent of the orchard and the nearby river, and informing my spirit that God was over all, and that I was safe. Safe in a hollow...where the deer lay.
