“Good grief,” I muttered as we inched along the country road that wound along one of the many rounded hills we call “knobs” in Kentucky, this one only a couple of miles from our house. My two-word commentary wasn’t a response to a tractor blocking our way or cattle slow-hoofing it across the road. Lori and I had just stopped our car to stare at a herd of deer, nine to be exact.
What’s so special about a herd of nine deer?
Let me back up.
We had just concluded our Labor Day celebration, and it had been a fun-filled day, a wonderful time when Lori and I enjoyed our Lebanon family: Madi, John, and their three kids—our grandkids. As much as we cherished every moment with them, somewhere in all the joy, Lori mentioned how she wished the other kids and their families could have joined us that day. “That just gives us something to look forward to,” I commented. “Maybe Labor Day next year, if not sooner, but it will happen.”
But the anticipation of the family gathering brought to mind the one who will always be missing, one who won’t ever join us this side of eternity. Harrison loved Labor Day celebrations and the smoked pork I prepared, grinning as I pretended I was Master Chef David, hiding a chuckle as I obsessed over the temperature on my smoker. He seemed impressed when I would share my little secrets of how to smoke those ribs to tender perfection. “Cool,” he would say, as if I were a genuine pit master.
At the end of our Labor Day celebration, when Madi, John, and the kids had gone home, Lori and I relaxed by driving around the knob. And that’s when we spotted the deer just as the sun was setting.
“I remember it was one a day just like this, this time of year, about this time in the evening when I took Harrison for a ride along this very road,” I mentioned to Lori as we meandered around the knob with the car windows down and sunroof open. Lori listened intently as I continued my description of that drive with Harrison. “I could tell he was lonely, so I said, ‘Let’s go a ride,’ and he hopped in the truck.” Lori nodded and smiled: Harrison fidgeted if he was around the house for very long, always sitting on “ready” when he had the opportunity to go for a ride in the days before he had a driver’s license.
Lori gazed along the road, imagining Harrison riding shotgun with me. “We drove along and talked about the corn, just like it looks now, and we rolled down the windows so we could listen to the sounds of dusk as night settled in,” I continued.
“And just about here,” I said, stopping the car in the deserted road, “we saw a herd of nine deer, and Harrison was like, ‘Wow’.”
And at that very moment in my description of that yesteryear drive with Harrison, Lori, and I saw a herd of deer in that exact place where Harrison had first seen them. “One, two, three, four…” she counted aloud until “nine.”
Nine.
Nine deer in the same location at the time of day where Harrison and I had seen a herd.
I wouldn’t argue with someone who credits it as just another of life’s coincidences.
But still, I wonder.
Lori and I sat in silent reflection as I drove on. A tear streaked my cheek. Our dearly departed are still with us as long as we keep them alive in our hearts.
I’m convinced God can use his creation to remind us of that.
And that is good grief.