What a TANGLE! One night a cold wind rattled our trellis, blew down the abandoned bird’s nest. When I picked it up, twigs snapped, a little dried grass drifted over my shoe.

Picture the inner cup of dried mud, smoothed by a bird’s downy breast. A mother’s instinctive care creates sanctuary.

“Blessed are those who dwell in your house,” Psalm 84 says. “Even the sparrow has found a home, and the swallow a nest for herself . . . a place near your altar.”

Lucky birds.

I, however, ache to feel God’s nearness. NOT this scruffy nest, with its hairline crack. Somehow still holding together, fragile, earthen, it seems a brittle, metaphorical portrait—exposing what?

Do I want to know?

Ah. No wonder the deserted, once-lively nest pains me. Not that long ago we emptied our home for thorough mold remediation. I shelve the nest in the garage, power down the big door.

Displaced, disheartened, shaken—oh, how I miss the familiar.

Then along comes my turn to lead devotions for a women’s group. What to share? The battered nest comes to mind. Perhaps I could hand the participants small pieces of paper, invite them to write down what’s making their hearts ache.

I hatch a few plans. But I keep forgetting to bring the nest indoors.

When the day finally arrives, I tuck the loving, avian tangle into a clear container. Some of the women eye it curiously when I arrive. I pass out blue sticky notes and ask everyone to write down one of their woes.

“Now, crumple or roll your paper into an egg,” I say. “We’ll tuck each one into the nest. Then let’s pray over the needs represented, holding in mind an egg’s potential for life.”

I’m hoping for reverent stillness. Startled, the woman beside me exclaims, “A leaf!”

Bright green, small as the head of a straight pin, the leaf was not there earlier. Now, amid salvaged fibers of dead vegetation, a spindly, translucent stem, one tender green sprig.

I swallow back tears, feeling seen, loved, and re-heartened, by the Creator.

The God who loves to surprise us meets us wherever we are.

“. . . from the dry and deserted . . . a freshness multiplied by love?” Poet Pablo Neruda once asked.

Silently, the women pass the nest, each adding their paper egg.

Afterward, I notice a blue, intricately folded shape. The size of a thumbnail, it perches on the rim. Someone with nimble fingers made an origami crane, Japanese symbol of peace, longevity, and healing hope.

And that tiny sprig we saw? Gone.

Today, I keep the nest near my desk: a reminder to watch for surprises. Might another seed nestle within?

Small things hold immense power: an atom, a cell, a seed, a spore. A word in due season.

Amid the clamor and chaos rocking the globe, where will the next sprig of hope emerge?

At our house, recent test results show Dreamer’s insides are a toxic tangle of infinitesimal mold spores—five types. Truly daunting, hopefully, fixable. Detox could take a year, or longer.

How do we live without becoming chronically bitter or fearful, hopeless or numb?

We keep watch for the next green sprig . . .

. . . we remind ourselves to show up for each other throughout the day, however imperfectly.

We remember the body is a temple for God’s loving presence, ever-at-work within.

Friends, how do you welcome the hidden? Is something unlikely already stirring within you?

“Everything becomes a lesson in living,
growth
through hardship and sweetness
… divine hands shape.”

—Pablo Neruda

P.S. The above story occurred a few months ago, but Dreamer’s diagnosis is new. The little sprig is still teaching me . . .

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Quotes, in order of appearance: “Alstromeria” and “Ode to Angèl Cruchaga,” by Pablo Neruda, All the odes

You might enjoy this from the archive: How hope answers

empty nest Photo by Annie Lang on Unsplash