We can hear because we’re hollow. 

from “Call It Dreaming”

 by Iron and Wine

 

         A deer wanders into the front yard. She sports a torn ear and her flanks are thin. She turns to gaze at the porch.

         A friend has invited me to join him for a beer and supper. He gives the deer a friendly nod and lifts his bottle. “Good evening, Therese.”          

         I smile at his choice of name. The deer lowers her head to munch on some sparse grass.

         “She prays for me.”

         Is she a Carmelite?”

         “Maybe.” He motions toward the abandoned church across the street. “Ever since a storm took the doors off ol’ First Baptist, she strolls inside a couple times a week.”

         I stare at the gaping entrance and weathered siding. Above the roofline, perched in the belfry, a dove bobs its head.

         Once a thriving town, three houses and this forlorn church are l that remain in this hamlet that my friend calls home. He draws a deep breath. “As a deer longs for running streams….”

          My gaze rests on Therese’s graceful posture as I complete the verse: “So my soul yearns for you, my God.”

                    

          After supper, my friend and I walk across the street and step inside the church. The interior lies in shambles: broken windowpanes, fallen plaster, toppled pews.

         Coyote scat litters the aisle and bird guano stains rusted chandeliers. In the chancel, a once-stately pulpit leans against the vestry door.           

          No cross adorns the wall.

          I note a stack of tattered hymnals in one corner. Above the choir loft, a cracked rafter splits the air like a dagger. The bleak emptiness disturbs me, and I ponder the notion of a world bereft of reverence and hope.

          I hear my friend in the chancel and turn to find him peering beneath the pulpit angled against the battered door. 

          He looks up. “I found her nest.”

           I climb the dais and kneel beside him. Inside the cave-like enclosure, wind has blown a thick layer of straw and dust. 

         My friend gives the pulpit a hearty slap. “Safe inside the Father’s house, eh?”  

          A shaft of light illumines the silent refuge. I imagine Therese lying on the chaff, her notched ear twitching against the splintered wood.

          Another verse from the same psalm comes to me: Why are you cast down, my soul? Why groan within me?

          Near her head, a pail of cool water. At rest on her flank, our Savior’s wounded hand.