I'm basically a neurotic - at least that's what the psychiatrist writes as my diagnosis on my six month check ups. As such, this whole blog thing often pushes the buttons a bit - I worry and obsess (only a little) that I am a tree falling in the middle of the woods. Do I make a sound? Thank heavens for the blog counter...the numbers creep up day by day so I know folks are out there checking in. Then, of course, as a neurotic I flip into the mode of worrying about what I am saying and if I am saying it often enough. The true drama of a neurotic is that you never let yourself "win." Enough of that...
It's Sunday morning. I'm sipping coffee. The dogs are doing their usual in-and-out-and-in routine. It's 30+ degrees and sunny. The snow is melting - though only the patch over the septic tank is revealing greenery; and, ah yes, the birds... I have continued my aspiration to be like St. Francis by being an avid bird feeder and watcher. Lately my flock - can a flock be multi-species? - consists of hairy and downy woodpeckers, goldfinches, chickadees, and nuthatches. I'd guess there's a half dozen mixed gender of each of the woodpeckers, nigh on a dozen goldfinches, and about 4 each of the chickadees and nuthatches that regularly hang out at my feeders.
What with the dogs coming and going the outer door on the screened in porch gets left ajar and an occasional bird gets trapped inside, panicked, unable to find his/her way back out. I've posted somewhere on the joy I experience when I can safely rescue them - usually by slowly corralling them back to the open door, but, on occasion, by gently capturing them in my hands and carrying them to the doorway. Once in my hands they stop struggling and then I am carrying this little bundle of feathery fluff that seems to weigh nothing at all. For a brief moment then I control their destiny. If I were wicked or vengeful I could easily snuff out their existence, but I am a believer in love of all beings (well, I struggle with mosquitoes and squirrels).
I wonder if this is how God feels with us. I'm not usually one to anthropomorphise God, but the idea of our destinies lying in God's hands has been a frequently occurring topic on the minds of some these days. My friend Leon, for example, reports telling someone that "Jesus won't pay my mortgage when it comes due."
As the trapped birds flutter frantically around the porch, they flee from the safety of my hands. Not until they feel the warmth of my grasp do they settle down to await their salvation. As the bird-feeder I am responsible for keeping the feeders filled, shagging the squirrels away as often as I can, and doing my best to save the birds when they've caught themselves up in the porch. I love them and care for them in a limited albeit important fashion.
Perhaps my caring for the birds IS God at work--not simply LIKE God at work. If so, then whenever we take on the role of "bird-feeder" for the many frightened and lost souls we encounter in our lives it is God at work through us. Peace, my brothers and sisters.
It's Sunday morning. I'm sipping coffee. The dogs are doing their usual in-and-out-and-in routine. It's 30+ degrees and sunny. The snow is melting - though only the patch over the septic tank is revealing greenery; and, ah yes, the birds... I have continued my aspiration to be like St. Francis by being an avid bird feeder and watcher. Lately my flock - can a flock be multi-species? - consists of hairy and downy woodpeckers, goldfinches, chickadees, and nuthatches. I'd guess there's a half dozen mixed gender of each of the woodpeckers, nigh on a dozen goldfinches, and about 4 each of the chickadees and nuthatches that regularly hang out at my feeders.
What with the dogs coming and going the outer door on the screened in porch gets left ajar and an occasional bird gets trapped inside, panicked, unable to find his/her way back out. I've posted somewhere on the joy I experience when I can safely rescue them - usually by slowly corralling them back to the open door, but, on occasion, by gently capturing them in my hands and carrying them to the doorway. Once in my hands they stop struggling and then I am carrying this little bundle of feathery fluff that seems to weigh nothing at all. For a brief moment then I control their destiny. If I were wicked or vengeful I could easily snuff out their existence, but I am a believer in love of all beings (well, I struggle with mosquitoes and squirrels).
I wonder if this is how God feels with us. I'm not usually one to anthropomorphise God, but the idea of our destinies lying in God's hands has been a frequently occurring topic on the minds of some these days. My friend Leon, for example, reports telling someone that "Jesus won't pay my mortgage when it comes due."
As the trapped birds flutter frantically around the porch, they flee from the safety of my hands. Not until they feel the warmth of my grasp do they settle down to await their salvation. As the bird-feeder I am responsible for keeping the feeders filled, shagging the squirrels away as often as I can, and doing my best to save the birds when they've caught themselves up in the porch. I love them and care for them in a limited albeit important fashion.
Perhaps my caring for the birds IS God at work--not simply LIKE God at work. If so, then whenever we take on the role of "bird-feeder" for the many frightened and lost souls we encounter in our lives it is God at work through us. Peace, my brothers and sisters.
3 comments:
Very sweet Renz! I really like the last paragraph.
~Lisa
Thanks, Lisa. Appreciate the feedback.
Good one, Larry!
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