And that, truly, is my favorite thing: that the same God who sets the wild deer on the crag says to you, “Here. Walk here. I made your feet for this.” For the leader of the choir. On stringed instruments. —Adapted from Habakkuk 3:19

And the deer? The deer does not conquer the mountain. It belongs to the mountain.

The high places are not punishment. They are training grounds for grace. On flat ground, anyone can walk. But on the heights? Only those who have learned to trust their strange, split-footed design—vulnerable yet sure, fragile yet perfectly fitted to the rock.

Because I have been there. Standing on a ledge I never asked for—a diagnosis, a loss, a broken dream—looking down at the drop and feeling my own humanity tremble. And in that tremor, realizing: I am still standing. Not because I have strong hands, but because something beneath me holds. A hidden architecture of grace. Hooves that find purchase on stone that should have sent me sliding.