Waiting is For the Birds


Sprawled out on every inch of the couch underneath a blanket, I surrender to the wooing of Sabbath when eyelids become heavy with Madame Bovary and her antics.  A few moments later, the repetitive vibrations from the bird bath awakens me from slumber.

Keeping eyes closed, I negotiate internally, if I move that bird is sure to fly off, it isn’t worth a steely glance, I should just go back to sleep.

Oh, but for the sweetness of a picturesque Sunday nap on the back porch hemmed in by a pine fence. The birds are teaching me just as He said they would.

Look at the birds, free and unfettered, not tied down to a job description, careless in the care of God. And you count far more to him than birds. Matthew 6:26, MSG

Gently moving my head on the pillow, I glimpse the winged water fountain interrupting my dreamscape. Pushing out his crimson chest like a boxer postulating significance among the crowds in the estuary, feathers flap revealing an impressive wing span.

Beyond, tiny birds flit in the undercover of branches, waiting a chance to slide into cool, refreshing waters. Patiently, they allow the one infatuated with the limelight an extravagance of time and attention.

Each branch is a rung on the ladder holding distinct varietal families like siblings huddling on a platform, whispering of plans before careening into water gymnastics.

When the cardinal exits, the tufted titmouse glides slowly like the entrails of a parachute jump. Her grey downy mohawk shakes like a garden sprinkler, water droplets teasing glances from the cardinal audience.

A conservative finch quickly follows, perching on rim and pushing beak into water as if to test the temperature before full relinquishment. Two in the finch family follow, flanking the conservative fellow, three blushing cheeks and chests awaiting mother’s permission, because they’ve just eaten lunch, of course.


When crowds of bird families vanquish, my gaze turn upward to air traffic; beaks and feathers whizzing by like space sprockets on the Jetsons.

I don’t understand bird language but the more I listen, the more I notice and remember.

Bird sounds drifting through open windows have awakened me with songs of hope since I was a young child taking an afternoon nap.

It’s as if God is reminding me that free and unfettered during a season of waiting doesn’t mean aimless, lazy, and irresponsible or a lack of identity.

Careless in the care of God is the definition of Sabbath and the playground for noticing His provision.

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I won’t be sharing my posts on social networking channels daily because who wants to see that much of me, really? If you want to follow our adventure to London subscribe to the blog in the side bar and posts will slide quietly into you inbox. Start from the beginning of the series here.



Momentum is Building


Along a narrow footpath, I walk serpentine around trees embedded in squares of earth, down metal stairs into the underground, my boots clinking on each step. Curly locks of hair swirl upward in a wind tunnel and down like confetti. I grab onto H’s arm — the rudder guiding me through swells of humanity.

For most of our silent walk, I keep the tempo H sets for the journey. Through fluorescent tubular halls deckled with movie posters, our arms gently brush against the coats of strangers holding shopping bags and collapsible cycles. My body squeezes into the arc of his torso through a narrow impasse.

Sometimes when the rhythm of our steps is broken by someone pushing past in a hurry, I move in front of H and trust his hand gently clutching my shoulder, leading me in the right direction.

On an escalator with the slant of a small ski slope, we stand single file to the right, allowing the fellow frantic to run instead of exhale. I’m certain our thoughts coincide with each other but our facial expressions don’t reveal hints to that reality.

Stepping off, a man strums from a chair in the corner, his guitar case a cash register of kindness strewn with pounds and pence. The art he offers to nameless faces interrupts a maze of unspoken thoughts and fills the hollowness of public space with bravery.

Sharing the art of who we are lends permission for others to step out of the shadows and embrace the hope of calling.

Beside each other, leaning against the swaying shell of the train, our unspoken thoughts become chatter of revelation. Our eyes sift through the chaos of activity and arrive at similar assessments, the same way they have every day since we met that providential evening twenty-four years ago in a room full of people.


Whether leafing through the newspaper, scraping the last spoonful of yogurt from the bottom of the plastic container, or paying for a carton of milk while a drunk engages you in conversation at the counter, God breaks into your everyday life like a song echoing off the hollowness of your porcelain exterior.

He reminds you through the twists and turns of your journey that those split-second decisions aren’t random but leading to the right platform for influence.Perhaps that’s why Jesus says, “Anyone who intends to come with me has to let me lead. You’re not in the driver’s seat; I am.”

Changing trains, we wait for the illumination of a lone headlight to break through the distant darkness and throngs of people.

An uncommon quietness precedes a powerful move of the Holy Spirit.

Listen. Momentum is building.

Destiny is coming down the tracks.

Mind the gap and allow Love to guide you.

A repost of from our trip to London last May as I’m traveling to the Allume conference. Funny how your own words can be fitting months later.


I won’t be sharing my posts on social networking channels daily because who wants to see that much of me, really? If you want to follow our adventure to London subscribe to the blog in the side bar and posts will slide quietly into you inbox. Start from the beginning of the series here.

Missing the Obvious


When I wrote to you earlier this week about the news we got that wasn’t what we hoped for regarding our timeline to London, your responses in phone calls and email messages let me know something I often forget. Love is often taken for granted.

Much of the answers to life’s questions rooted in “Am I loved?” are staring us right in the face. Tainted by misguided expectations from ourselves and others, we often miss the whispers of Jesus. His love letters are daily sprawled with, “Yes, you are loved wildly with abandon.” This journey to London is cultivating a lifestyle of noticing His handwriting in unexpected places.

My daughter’s leaving home to start a new season in college highlights the ways in which God has been trying to get my attention with the utmost of patience. I’m a slow processor but eighteen years might be a little ridiculous.

I’m finding gratitude in our new departure date to London which let’s admit, is a grace gift of large proportions.

On the top of that list of thanks is spending time with my daughter at home for the holiday season.  For most of her life, God has been revealing hints to her destiny as an artist but I was too busy making her happy to notice.

Join me at a new-to-me website, voiceBoks, where I’m sharing a new story I haven’t told you about yet. This online space is amazing with a huge audience, not sure how I missed it. This seems like an echo . . . .