I pull into the driveway after a long trip, and witness a miracle.
Pip, the gray wren who shows up every spring, is rebuilding her nest in the corner of our carport again. I thought for sure that she had kicked the can last year, when she suddenly disappeared, leaving a baby bird behind. Yet here she is again! She has pushed the baby bird's bones out of the nest and lined her house with fresh twigs. (We have witnessed a lot of life and death in our carport through the years.)
At the sight of her silhouette in my headlights, I put my head on the steering wheel and cry.
Maybe it’s because I’m overtired.
Maybe it’s because I’m just glad to be home.
Or maybe it’s because the first story I ever wrote was about a bird and a nest.
It was third grade, and I wrote the story to read out loud at the annual third grade talent show. It was called “A Helping Wing,” and it told of a little robin who broke her wing and needed help building her nest. A troupe of local mockingbirds and cardinals, sparrows and owls brought pieces of their own nests to add to hers, and they all lived happily ever after.
After the talent show, the mother of another student came up to me and said that my story made her cry... in a good way.
And that was when I knew I wanted to be a writer.
Now I’m crying into the steering wheel because it’s been harder than I thought to stay the course, harder than I thought to remember why I’m doing all of this in the first place.
But Pip has just reminded me:
I’m here to write about how a little gray wren builds her nest in our carport every year and to wonder what this might say about God.
It’s that simple.
It's that hard.
It's that wonderful.
But a lot of churches have green rooms these days.
And I’m not sure how I feel about that.