When we left our house to run errands today, our eyes were met with the sight of several ibis, wading in the lake that has settled at our driveway's end. My daughter and I stood for awhile, quietly watching, not wanting to frighten them into flight. I snapped a photo and edged forward. Snap! Another photo stolen, this at closer proximity, and still those graceful birds remained.
"Why don't they fly away?" whispered my daughter.
I wasn't sure. Could it be that they had some sort of inner radar, letting them know it was okay to trust? Even as we started down the driveway in my car, the birds stayed calm. I slowly edged past, and they meandered to the other side of the drive, unbothered by our intrusion, focused on the business of gathering food.
How often during my day am I distracted? How frequently does my heart stir at something I read, something I hear out on the street, something my soul is nudging me to recognize? How often do I ignore the deepest cries of my heart for true and meaningful connection with God because I'm afraid? I have trust issues with God, to be sure, but this is something else. This failure to fully engage comes from being frightened of who I might offend, who I might shock, who might think me a hypocrite. And this lack of trust that things will work out okay, even wonderfully, if I can only keep taking baby steps in the right direction, keeps me hungry, unable to fully nourish my spirit or feed anyone else's.
My heart has been deeply touched and stirred over the past three months. I don't think I can walk backwards for long because my eyes keep searching for that glimmer of peace I discovered back in August, that tiny spark. And that shimmer of light and love is right up ahead, waiting for me to contribute, to add to that wonderous light that is God loving the world.
'Tis a lot to ponder on a Friday night late. I'm blaming it on those trusting birds.
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