Empty water bottles and overdue library books roll backward, then forward on the floor of the passenger seat as I pull up to my parents’ eclectic, dated abode and shift into park.
After grabbing my stuff from the back seat, I climb out of my SUV that has duct tape holding together the side view mirror. There on the other side of the car, as always, perched next to the big tree that shades their driveway, is the little ceramic deer with an old bandage wrapped around one of its shoddy ears.
I gently kick the truck door shut with my foot, holding a casserole for my parents in one hand and my usual bag of cleaning supplies in another. Then I walk around the car, stop and say, as I often do, “Hello Deer with the Broken Ear.”
I assure you I don’t make a habit of talking to lawn ornaments (or of referring to others by their physical attributes). But I like to think Deer with the Broken Ear and I have a certain rapport.
My dad, not big on discarding things, rescued the kind-eyed figurine twenty years ago from a neighbor’s garbage can.
In my dad’s defense, typically he doesn’t go around digging in other people’s trash. But he does have a habit of making a home for that which needs a little tender loving care.
So for those of us who know him well, it came as no surprise that he reached in and scooped out that forsaken deer and that my Mom fetched a bandage to swathe the most tender of its two chipped ears.
I’m proud to know the two people who brought me into this world saw as much virtue and lovableness in that fragmented deer, if not more, as collectibles that are perceived as perfectly whole.
The four-legged champ has been enduring the Minnesota snowdrifts by the big tree without complaint ever since, watching steadfastly it’s adoptive parents, the adult children, the grandkids, the UPS guys, come and go.
Oh the stories that deer could tell! Stories of the man and woman who live inside who’ve shared a lifetime of love and loss together. Stories in the faces of the family members who take time from complex, imperfect lives to pull up this driveway and help mend brokenness along the way.
The Deer with the Broken Ear wasn’t the first nor the last of the wounded warriors taken in by my dad and lovingly tolerated by my mom. Nearby is also a headless turtle, a paint-chipped country boy, and a statue of St. Francis of Assisi in a tattered tunic and no shoes (not to mention the myriad of handcrafted misfits inside the house).
I’ll admit, I have on occasion indulged in the fantastical thought of that humbled pack of porcelain coming to life to watch over my parents—in need of a little tender loving care now, too, their hair turned white as the snowdrifts—when my siblings or I can’t be there to do so ourselves.
I suspect they would, if they could, do anything to safeguard the two people who gave them a home—that charitable, apt tall guy in paint-stained blue jeans never short on enterprising ideas and his smart, luminous wife of sixty years who comes and goes now in a chair on wheels and whose legendary laugh is known to erupt from her like fizzy pop.
But let’s face it. Even a day-dreamin’, right-brained girl like me realizes Deer with the Broken Ear and his porcelain pals are just a bunch of lawn ornaments. So, I whisper up frequent prayers for safekeeping instead.
“Goodbye Deer with the Broken Ear,” I say, as I often do when it’s time for me to go home and tend to my own set of yearlings, already two teens and a tween.
Again, I do not make a habit of talking to lawn ornaments. But to me, Deer with the Broken Ear is more than a slab of molded enamel. It’s an emblem. A symbol. A representation. A reminder. Not only of the lovable family legacy from which I came, but also of the brokenness in which true beauty and hope are found.
We’ve all got some brokenness going on in our lives in some form or another. Not one of us gets out of this life unscathed. But when we look closely inside the crushed heart, the shredded dream, the splintered hope, we’ll discover that’s where a lot of the magnificent details are. It’s where the real work of the Sculptor is taking place.
The beauty isn’t necessarily found in the fragmented pieces themselves. Rather, it’s found in the humbled rising up and pouring out from them. For there’s no greater glimpse of hope and what’s yet to come, at least from where I stand, than those reaching out of their own brokenness to reach into the brokenness of another.
Stay Tuned for my new book coming out in March 2020: Secret Twin Cities: A Guide to the Weird, Wonderful, and Obscure. Truly a different sort of project for me, but in many ways a perfect project for me.
I’m Julie Jo Severson, mom to three teens, freelance writer, editor, and co-author of HERE IN THE MIDDLE: Stories of Love, Loss, and Connection from the Ones Sandwiched in Between.
This blog, Carvings on a Desk, is where I reconnect with my own voice swirling around in the middle.
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Oh, this is absolutely beautiful, Julie! How I wish I had a deer with a broken ear to watch over my parents. But I think the angels are doing a good job!
In my book, Carving Angels, Papa Adam says this: “He uses life and experience to mold and refine us. Father Creator takes each of us and holds us to the light, trying to see what sort of good person is inside. Then he gives us experiences that bring out that person. Experiences that carve off the rough, unwanted edges and slowly shape and refine us until we are perfect.”
That is how I feel about this life. Living it as it comes makes us into better people.
Thank you again for this!
Wow, Diane, what a reflective comment. Yeah, we could all use a Deer with the Broken Ear looking out for us:-) Your book sounds beautiful. Thank you so much for stopping by!
That’s such a beautiful story.I’s amazing how object, even broken ones, have such deep meaning and nostalgia.
Beautiful story, thank you! Love that your parents can see the beauty in things that have lived some.
Not that I think lawn ornaments actually live. But I think you know what I mean! 😉
Thanks Bonnie! I love that about them, too.
This is just so lovely, Julie.
The juxtaposition of your sideview mirror held with duct tape and the deer’s bandaged ear was perfect.
And this ending sentence says it all: there’s no greater glimpse of hope and what’s yet to come, at least from where I stand, than those reaching out of their own brokenness to reach into the brokenness of another.
Julie! Fun to see you here. Thank you for your thoughtful comment and for tweeting this. You are always so kind and generous. There are a lot of people very near and dear to me reaching out to others from their own brokenness, so this is something I’ve been fortunate to witness often. They are my greatest inspirations in life.
Sweet tribute to your parents!!
What a stunning mix of humor, truth and quirky wit. I love it. May we all learn to appreciate the beauty of the broken things in our lives.
I missed your comment. Sorry! Thank you so much. I love that you found those three things in this piece. Certainly three of my favorite things!
I love this. I have a deer with a broken leg and still he is with us every Christmas. His super glued leg is a reminder of the days my kids were smaller. That’s when he was broken and we fixed him together and showed our kids that he still has a place in our home. Be blessed.
Laura, that’s so amazing that you have a broken deer, too. Such a sweet lesson to teach your kids. To mend repair rather than to dispose and replace. I love that.
So, so beautiful. I love reading your stories, and catching glimpses into your family of origin. Your ability to not only see, but also describe the everyday beauty and grace that surrounds you is a gift. Thank you, as always, for your continued carvings on a desk!
Melissa, thank you for stopping in and for your lovely feedback. You’re one of my TCWS faves!
WHOA!! I’m in tears. This is SO BEAUTIFUL. I knew it would be. Everything you write hits my heart hard, but this one? Even harder…
I want to copy SO many words here and frame them- put them right in front of me to read over and over again. I want to gift them to all the people I love, all the beloved souls who need this inspiration…This glorious insight and hopeful encouragement.
There are so many.
You are such a gift. Your words, your heart, your voice.
I can’t wait to share this.
There you go again, Christine Carter, lifting me up on a day I needed a little encouragement. That comes so naturally to you. Thank you so much. Yes, I wish we were neighbors . . .
Gorgeous.
Hi Lisa! And thank you:-)
This is such a beautiful essay … such a beautiful message. I have an assortment of chipped and broken limbed Christmas decorations that used to be my mothers – they mean so much to me.
Thank you. You know, I haven’t had anybody real close to me pass away. I’ve been very fortunate in that way. But, yeah, I’ll bet those sort of mementos become priceless and help us preserve the memories.
I am so happy to see this here. And I can see it going elsewhere when the right venue comes along. We’ll keep our ears open.
Thanks, Nina, for stopping by and for keeping your EARS open 🙂 LOL