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My world had come apart and I thought, nothing or no one can ever repair it. I was fresh from eight weeks in the hospital after a wretched accident in which I had lost my right arm and a few other mundane parts and pieces at the age of sixty-three. My blessed family was there through every grueling surgery. With each awakening I was ecstatic to be alive, until ghastly thoughts would take hold of my mind and force reality to creep back in. Self-pity was eating me up, and homesickness often overwhelmed me. (I still find myself a cranky old fussbudget if away from my home for more than two days.)
I was released from the hospital after two months. When at last I looked up to behold the big curved log gateway over my drive, my carefully burned lettering on the ranch sign hanging beneath the gate, and my beloved kids and grandkids running to greet me, I felt renewed, reborn. A small blackish cloud passed beneath the sun releasing a short July drencher as the youngsters helped their bedraggled Granny up toward the deck where our Molly and her Mike were shish-kabobbing.
"The kids need you, Granny," pleaded Mol, as she planted a kiss on my cheek and announced she was pregnant again. "They need to touch their Gran." My littlest babes grabbed onto my left arm lest I should topple over. We lifted our legs high and waded barefoot through the glistening wet grass where a sea of blossoms had raised their heads to drink. It smelled delicious.
"Are you okay, Gran? Do you want a glass of juice?" queried my sweet Mikal.
"No, my darlin', not now," I whispered. As we picked dandelions and wild flowers for the dinner table, I was acutely aware of my surroundings - more than ever before. Suddenly Jamie stared down at her bouquet and mumbled, "You're not going to die, are you Granny?"
The next morning I arose and slipped out into the sunshine in my shorty jammies to look and listen to God's miracles embracing me. The mallards were completely engrossed in caring for their eggs - nested warmly under carefully fashioned bits of grass and straw. The hens took turns scurrying into Duck Soup Waterfowl Refuge to flap their wings and drown their feathers before returning to the nest for a few more hours of incubating. "Only a few more days, ladies," I reminded them out loud. "Then all your worries begin." Our beautiful donkey family had finally shed their scruffy winter coats and looked so fine, all decked out in silky coats with their crosses emblazoned down their backs and across their shoulders. "And what did Mary ride to Bethlehem on?" I called out. As she sensed my frailties, one of the donkeys, Sweet Pea, whimpered ever so softly instead of her usual full-blown hee-haw. She lifted her head and sniffed the air as I walked toward her, then all five suddenly jumped and fled.
I knew I looked and smelled different, but that was okay. I had lots of time and so did they. I could hardly wait to walk the earth . . . to breathe in the scent of lodge pole pine . . . to feel the sweet breezes that made the pond ripple . . . to listen to the piercing sounds of Rocky Mountain birds whose melodies are heard only by those who bother to listen. The cottontails sat up to ogle while their wee ones scurried out of the grass before me. Our big forested mountain was still there, and I knew this was the place I would feed my soul - forever. As I meandered over the uneven pasture toward the woods, in hopes the shooting stars or Indian paintbrush had bloomed, I thought I heard a cry.
Our dog, Keesha, stopped to listen and sniff - it was probably only a bird. We had taken only a few more steps, however, and there before us hung a spotted fawn caught up on the farm fence. I quietly ordered Keesha to stay while I drew closer, trying not to notice the anxious doe peering at me from the shadows. The fawn cried like a baby as I threw my heavily bandaged stump under her chest, lifted slightly and untangled her hoof with my good hand. Anyone coming upon the scene would have surely thought I had lost my mind. As we both fell to the ground, the mama leapt over the fence squealing at the top of her lungs. Here I was, this old broad lying in a field, flat on my back in my pajamas, caressing a spotted fawn with half an arm, while Keesha wagged her tail and slurped my face in utter joy.
"Okay, okay, Mama, we're leaving," I yelled to the doe. With that she and her child ran off into the aspens without a by-your-leave. I couldn't help but laugh out loud and boast to Keesha as I rolled over and got to my feet. "Holy smokes girl, I've been home less than a day and already I'm a hero. I can do anything, even save a life."
And save lives I did as the years have flown by. I was, and still am, slightly insecure, and every time I get to feeling that life has dealt me a bum blow, I look around at others in such terrible trouble and thank God for allowing this wretch to live and love all who enter her life. We know not from where God sends his creations to heal souls when all seems lost. That little fawn will always be in my prayers, for she was a part of my healing that fateful day. Thank you, little fawn, thank you.
By Kathe Campbell
Marilyn L. Ali
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