There is
a small,
whisper-thin,
grayish
bird, building
a nest
outside my
living room window,
up on
top of the porch post.
I watch
her,
and hold
my breath
when she
lands
and exhale
sadly
when she
leaves.
It is a
gray morning,
wet and storming,
and I
worry for her
that all
her hard work
will find
itself lifted
by the
wind,
dancing and
spinning
in the
air before falling apart.
But don’t
we all—
fall apart
sometimes?
And then
build ourselves
up again? Don’t we?
Afterall
today is Easter
and just
the other day
was the crucifixion
and everything
fell apart,
but now
it is storming
and the
thunder is not
God bowling
with the angels,
as we
were told as children.
No, this
is Easter
and that
crack of thunder
is the
stone being rolled
away from
the tomb.
Did you
think the resurrection
was peaceful?
Did you
picture blue skies
and clouds
parting like the Red Sea?
Did you
think Mary skipped her
way to
the tomb, humming
and pausing,
Snow-White-like,
to talk
to the bees
and sing
with the birds?
It was
Easter that broke
the world.
It was the
day when
God
said, “No, no,
I don’t
think the world
can ever
be the same.”
The
birds know this of course.
They
have always known
about the
cyclical nature of life,
how things
die and dash apart,
how what
seems like a lifetime of work
on a
nest can be lost to one gust
from a
storm that couldn’t be bothered
to know
there was a nest there.
And yet,
each spring,
we welcome
life back.
We hold
up our hands
and say “Yes,
yes, come, come.”
I am
ready for it all, goodness
even the
spiders, but don’t tell them that.
And so I
watch the tiny, gray bird
building
her nest and I smile,
and the
cats chirp at her behind
the safety
of the glass,
and I’m
rooting for her,
as God
roots for us all,
roots for
life to win,
for love
to win
always and
every day,
not just
on Sundays.
Amen.
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