Saturday, March 1, 2014

Choose: On bird songs, beginning Lent and waiting to see




Bustling around in our bedroom just after five am, I gather my gym bag and things for work, and I hear them for the first time this winter. Birds in the trees, singing. Their songs hover in the darkness outside the window, each one an ornament of hope hung upon bare tree branches, waiting to catch the glint of the sun.  

They sing into the dark and their voices are not overcome.

They sing in the womb of the morning, awaiting the birth of a new day.  

They sing, because that is what they were made to do.

I pause in my scurrying around in the dark and my mouth curves upward, a small offering of thanks for this gift.  Perhaps, they've been singing all winter, and I simply haven't been paying attention.

. . . . . . . . . 

Time barrels along, and having just brought us through the season of Advent, I stand looking only days ahead into the season of Lent. I think back to last Lenten season, and I honestly can't remember much. It was dark and I was broken, that is what I remember. It was similar to what Anne Lamott describes in her latest book on meaning and hope in suffering: "My understanding of incarnation is that we are not served by getting away from the grubbiness of suffering. Sometimes we feel that we are barely pulling ourselves forward through a tight tunnel on badly scraped-up elbows. But we do come out the other side, exhausted and changed." 

I remember the co-mingling of ache and relief, death and life, that resurrection morning of Easter. I'd come out the other side, exhausted, and not yet sure that I'd been changed.

On the cusp of this Lenten season, it's not so dark, though there are still the days of pulling forward through a tight tunnel on those raw elbows. I've been pondering, what can I give this next forty days? I still don't know.

But I know I am drawn toward those birds, that something in me knows I, too, was made to sing into the darkness, inside the womb, bathing the world around me in hope and beauty.

And I know this, too, preparing to enter this beautiful, somber season: Lent is about seeing myself smaller and seeing Jesus more clearly. I know I don't often pay enough attention, in my scurrying about in the darkness, and I miss the songs.  I miss seeing Jesus.

. . . . . . . . . 

On select days when my sight is crisp and clear, I catch sight of God in the customer that appears to be stiff or demanding or a grouch, but with a little attention and gentle prompting, lets slip a moment of human vulnerability. I catch sight of God in the imperfections of my spouse, with flecks of future glory seeping through cracks. In the eleven-day boy cradled in the crook of his daddy's arm, wrinkled and sleeping and beautiful. In the cushion of cotton candy pink and orange between mountain crags and charcoal clouds in the early winter morning.

But most of the time, the sightings of God are like glimpses in a broken mirror, shards of real in a distorted vision field. I see Jesus cloaked in people and experiences of the past, in my unconscious projections of these upon him. I long to strip those away, until I only see him, as he is.

And maybe that is the hope I bring into this Lenten season. There will be no full seeing on this side of eternity, but less dimly? Less distorted? Like the birds in the trees awaiting the morning light, one can only hope and sing for this.

Yes, maybe this Lenten season I will choose to join the birds and daily waken the dawn and my eyes with songs of prayer, and wait to see Jesus.



Joining Lisa Jo to the prompt of "Choose." In case you're tempted to be in awe of the amount of words I churned out in this FMF post, this was NOT written in five minutes.

Joining Holley, too, for the first time, for Coffee for Your Heart.  The prompt is "Who inspires you," and my answer, today, is more a "what" - bird songs and sightings of Jesus. 







14 comments:

  1. Dear Amber,

    I especially like this thought, "But I know I am drawn toward those birds, that something in me knows I, too, was made to sing into the darkness, inside the womb, bathing the world around me in hope and beauty."

    Indeed, we have been made to see too, even or maybe especially in the darkness.

    Blessings in Christ...Susan

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    1. Indeed we have, Susan - especially in the dark :) So nice to see you here. May the grace of songs and seeing be with you, friend.

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  2. Absolutely Beautiful and encouraging. Thank you for your candid thoughts.

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    1. So grateful it was an encouragement, Marissa. Thank you for taking a moment to let me know and for coming in to my 'home' here :-)

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  3. I have not read Anne Lamott but her description is priceless. Sometimes I think I'm nearing the end of my tunnel and others, the light doesn't seem so near. But I long to sing with the birds as we were meant to do! Thanks for sharing this encouragement over at FMF. :)

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    1. I'm right there with you, Jen. The end of the tunnel can seem illusive sometimes, and I go in and out, too. But it's always a little breath of relief and hope to see a bit of light ahead, isn't it? To know, even when we can't see or feel it, that we will come out the other end. I pray encouragement and the light of hope over you as you crawl through your tunnels and for you to find more and more your beautiful voice to sing with the birds.

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  4. This is a lovely post. I am a bird lover myself so this really touched me. I love how you used their early morning songs as an analogy to hope! Ornaments of hope. Lovely word picture. I'll be saving that quote. Visiting from fmf ! Blessings!

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    1. Birds have grown in my heart over the years, and now they are so dear to me! I was thankful for that analogy, too - it kind of came to me and I'll be hanging onto it as well. I'm so glad it spoke to you. Thank you for visiting :-)

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  5. You inspired me friend. As you often do, but this time inspiration came with paints and canvas. Please don't ever stop writing.

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    1. Talk about a post that was worthwhile, if it inspired such gorgeous inspiration in your painting! I can't believe you just started painting only a year ago... that is so inspiring to ME. Thank you, for all the ways you encourage.

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  6. My darling. You amaze me. I so love your ornaments! These birds and their songs! And the hope…oh, God, thank you for hope. I love you!

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    1. And every time I look at my framed bird picture on the table next to my bookshelf, I think of you :-) Yes, thank God for hope and birds and songs...

      I love you, too.

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  7. I woke this morning and said to H, "Oh my, there is the coo of a dove, it must be warm outside." I looked at the temperature guage and saw that no, its not warm, in the 40's. We both looked at each other and wondered about how we noticed the bird chatter that wasn't there last week. It's a sign of change, the end of transition I think. Love the way you notice.

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    1. Wait, you can hear doves outside your window? I'm a little envious right now :-). But seriously, it's a wonder, the ways of birds and the signals of the seasons changing and how they all work together in more of a dance than a formula. We just have to pay attention, and I find I miss so much... but when I do notice, wow. What a treat. Thank you for noticing with me.

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