(First published June 29, 2009)

I write this on a comfortable evening, sitting on the deck. The wind is blowing the trees. The birds are chipping in their evening voices. I can’t tell whether they are trying to get the kids to settle down or making plans for tomorrow. The robin is on the wire, resting a moment before heading to the ground to find another mouthful for the almost grown children.

I can almost, tonight, picture Jesus calling the crowd to him and starting to tell a story.

He’d start to talk about birds being watched by their heavenly Father. Or He’d look up at the birds carrying food to their children and talk about how they don’t have to plant or plow. Or he’d notice how everything got very quiet just as the hawk flew through the yard. Maybe he’d say something about being vigilant.

The people would follow his gaze up to the birds, or across to the tree where the hawk had gone. As they looked, his words began to work on them.

The stories are succinct. They allow for, they demand, they invite, reflection. You can understand that for some people, they were nice stories about birds or merchants or planters. For some people, they were confusing metaphors. For some people, the ones who stopped and listened and decided that maybe his words were worth considering, the stories of Jesus were life-challenging, life-changing.

Looking at birds tonight, to live as if I were a bird, actually depending on God to put food where I can find it if I look, seems hard. I have to accept that it is not my looking that provides it. It’s not my searching that makes it grow. I have to seek. And I will find.

Like starting to write a story. And finding birds.