Two days ago, I took a walk for the first time in what felt like ages (it’s probably only been a few days). Walking is my main form of exercise, and I’ve been relatively consistent with it this summer—really, all year because we didn’t get a winter in Denver.
As I walked, the absence of something was clear: my beloved bright yellow Western Kingbirds. They show up in late spring, peppering the trees and the sky in our neighborhood with their beautiful song. I’ve lived in Colorado my entire life (practically) and never saw these birds until last summer, our first in our new home. Both sexes of the bird are bright yellow, and they have a very unique beak. They are incredible creatures.
I fell in deep like with them last summer but fell in love with them this year. The feeling was not mutual. My walk took me past at least two nests where, daily, I was dive-bombed by protective parents. I would cower from the attacks, ducking as I went, yet loving the experience all the same. I admired their determination to protect their young, even though little old me posed no threat.
Even birds that were not guarding their nests were everywhere, it seemed, chirping merrily and keeping me company on my way. I grew to adore this part of my day, as God speaks powerfully to me through His creation.
One day, weeks ago, I walked by one of the nests where I had been dive-bombed and there were three perfect babies sitting on a branch just outside the nest, the same three who days before eagerly opened their tiny beaks for mom and dad to fill. Now here they were, getting ready to leave the nest, making me feel pride and happiness like I had been part of their story.
Because I had.
I prayed for them when the rain and hail and wind came, when the Fourth of July brought a barrage of noise and fire in the sky. I had willed them to survive. This is just what I do—I get very personally involved in His creation as I am one of its stewards. As such, I take my job seriously.
When I walked by a second time that day, my three babies were gone, in the blink of an eye. And I was sad. Where before there had been much life, now was only an empty nest.
I wanted to cry.
I thought of my own three babies. The time had gone by just as fast.
A few work trips and a few short vacations took me away from Colorado for three weeks or so. And as I was taken away, so were the birds.
They head south for the winter, like everything else, leaving their adoptive human parents bereft and devastated.
I hadn't had a chance to say good-bye; to tell them how much they'd brightened my days. There was no closure. They simply left, without allowing me the chance to bid them farewell.
The metaphor of my life... so many had left without allowing farewells. My brother, my parents, my ex-husband, a best friend.
I felt cheated, again.
Until yesterday.
During my walk two days ago, I had talked to God, asking Him to send me a kingbird, just one more time.
Yesterday I woke up after a worse than normal night of sleep. After making a cup of coffee, I pulled up a barstool, talking to my husband about the day ahead.
He pointed outside and said, “Isn’t that a kingbird on the hummingbird feeder?”
I ran over and looked.
It was. This time there was no holding back the tears.
Thank you, God, I whispered silently. Thank you.
Wow! Love this. Inspiring
You write beautifully.
Praise God for how he answers very personal prayers. He knew it wasn't even about the birds for you.