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 . . .
Welcome, new subscribers! If you’re curious about our story, please check out the last few blog posts.
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
I subscribed a few years ago and I follow on and off. I have to tell you the feeling I get from your writings are calming, peaceful, stirring, yearning, exhilarating. I also share your writings with my wife and she loves them as much as I do. I wish I could express my thoughts as effective as you do. Thank you for touching our lives with His light through your writings.
Dear Robert, Thank you for so generously writing and sharing the range of ways some of these posts have impacted you and your wife. What a marvelous, unexpected gift this is!
Your eloquent expression moves me. So much so, I long all the more to truly see and clearly name glimpses of God’s light in our lives . . .
Wishing you both a new year vivid and vibrant with mercies, provision, and goodness,
Laurie
Oh dearest Laurie and dear Dreamer, Please know how sorry I am for this difficult news (on top of everything else you two have experienced)! I pray he is not in horrific pain.
Sheridan is folding origami birds for a passport night at her new school. She is eager to welcome English language learners to make them feel welcome in America (especially now).
She and Mike also listen to the birds and watch for them on their walks. Keep a look out for paper birds and real ones, as they flutter hope into your life, because they all can bring hope and joy one way or the other. I love those early morning choristers outside my window welcoming the day. May they bring you and Dreamer joy too.
xo
Lynn
PS And God used that Psalm powerfully in my life shortly after Daddy died (a long, arduous, painful d-y-i-n-g…). sometimes I would hear him singing, “His Eye Is on the Sparrow,” as I rounded the corner into his room. After his passing, reading that Psalm the next day, I knew that Daddy had flown home to God’s throne room and had a seat at His altar.
Lynn, thank you for your kind heart. Dreamer’s not in any pain, for which we give thanks. Crushing fatigue, though, every day.
I’m picturing Sheridan’s folded birds and pray those small, intricate gifts, nimbly and soulfully offered, will touch the students deeply.
You have truly lived those lines in Psalm 84. How wrenching to witness your daddy’s suffering. And also, how extraordinary: I imagine you perhaps tilting your head that first time you rounded the corner and recognized his voice, then the words he was singing. Singing! —despite the pain. And the consolation of Ps. 84, afterwards: knee-bending.
I will watch for birds in my life, friend . . .
Oh my–what a marvelous, mystical experience for you and your women’s group, Laurie! It brought tears to my eyes, realizing afresh how loving, attentive, and creative our Father in the ways he ministers to us. Praise God for meeting us again and again in unmistakable ways. (Of course, your inspired gift for using words in compelling ways certainly enhanced the story. I praise God for you and for that gift also!) P.S. I’ll add specific prayers for Dreamer to my ongoing prayers for the two of you, that the detox fulfills all hope and accomplishes restorative healing!
Dear Nancy, the memory of the sprig continues to be a marvel to me. And so is the nest, with its crumpled cargo of secret sorrows, thoroughly private. I feel a little like a guardian, and often find myself praying for the words written inside the wrinkles.
And this feels amazing, too. Knowledge made new again—even after so many years in training. We don’t have to know another’s woe to sit quietly, alongside, in prayer.
I’m thinking of the woman yesterday at the Y… the dark green she wore was a color made for her—and I told her so.
That led to a deep conversation about pain and the lack of fellowship and healing. My little comment about the beauty of green on her opened up a conversation of hope.
Not exactly the same but the same surprise of a small unlikely thing eliciting a deep response of the soul.
I LOVE where that simple observation led the two of you. <3
And I love this: the "surprise of a small unlikely thing eliciting a deep response of the soul."
It makes me want to keep my senses honed, open, scanning, along with sustaining an honest, inner willingness to engage . . .
Thank you!
I am just praying for you in holy silence. You are a cherished feather on the breath of God. And for those of us who know you a little, or long and well, your words and images sing mightily of the God who sees us. Even in our quietest, weariest moments, He finds ways to bolster and nourish us, if we have eyes to see. Be blessed, precious one. He who began a good work in us will see it to fruition.
“ A cherished feather on the breath of God”
Wow
Thank you
Pacia, sweet friend, thank you. For a long time now I’ve worn an feather-shaped ring to remind myself of those very words spoken by Hildegard of Bingen. It reminds me to try to live lightly, easily stirred by the Spirit, lighthearted (ever a challenge for an Eeyore!), to move in grace, and with and by grace—especially when I catch the quill end on something yet again (it’s not a soldered band) and the whole ring pulls open, all wonky, and I have to bend it back into a circle again. It’s misshapen now, and perhaps even more cherished for the way it wraps around my finger, imperfections and all. One tiny turquoise cabochon rests down near the quill end. Now that I think about this, the stone’s about the same size as the fleeting green leaf in the nest. Wow. Feeling bolstered afresh, and delighted at this. 🙂 May fruition come in its good time to us all. Meanwhile, here’s to quietness . . .
Laurie…. You continue to capture me and bring me to my knees with your loving, profound thoughts and word images…This is beautiful!
Love and prayers for you and Bill on his health journey!
Becky
Dear Becky, thank you for kneeling with us, from afar. What a gift. We are so grateful for your prayers and your love!
Happy New Year to you and your family!
Oh, Laurie
So much to ponder
Maybe I’ll comment later
Right now just gonna receive
Your worded experience
Ruined
For the ordinary
Dear Rick,
I keep thinking about your sign-off,
marveling at its truth
and pondering
ways that living, true-ly,
each ordinary day
invites us toward
marvel:
Ruined
For the ordinary
Thank you!