Sparrow

 

This morning I feel a bit like a tiny bird who has, inexplicably, survived a hurricane. Bloodied, bruised and battered, this little bird sails limply down into a yard and waits. For what, no one really knows. A neighborhood cat? A cruel child with a bat? A good citizen with a net and a cozy mudroom with a heat lamp and some soggy birdseed gruel? At this point, like the bird in my illustration, I don't really want any of it. 

The good Samaritan might have some yummy vitamin C of the Word of God, or really robust and healthy prayer. I need those things but, at this moment, I'm too weak to take in much of them. Maybe a drop. Maybe two. Maybe all I need is to be placed on a high shelf for a few hours and allowed to begin to heal on my own. Maybe that time will allow God's restorative powers to seep through the cardboard box of my isolation in the mudroom and I'll start to heal organically. Yes, that's it. Outside the mudroom, life goes on. The neighborhood cats stalk their prey. Disease rots other birds. They fly into windshields. The weather sweeps them away. Before I head back out, I must gain some strength, or my fight will be short.

Times like these, my humanity is the biggest thing in my windshield. "Let God be! Let God be!" The religious voices in my head scream this day and night, denigrating my frailty and erasing my stamina. But today, just for today, I'm going to sit on the shelf in the mudroom of heaven on earth, feeding on the peace that only God can give. He gives it a tiny therapeutic drop at a time. I picture Him bent over my spiritual hospital bed, adjusting the I.V. very, very carefully. He's calibrating just how much healing I can take at one time. He's not asking me to get up and run down the street, proclaiming His praises, though I know that one day I most certainly will. He's asking me to see if I can open my eyes today. Can I track the movements of His hand? "Ok, that's enough for now. Go back to sleep, my child. I will check your nourishment later. Maybe we will sit up on the side of the bed tomorrow."

It means everything to me that my Savior is gentle and humble at heart. In Him I find rest for my soul. (Matthew 11:29). In the darkest of valleys. In the deepest of oceans. In the heart of the hurt. In the forest or fire. I won't be lost forever. I am not lost now. I won't be utterly forsaken. I am not now. I just hurt and I need to heal.