There’s something deeply humbling about realizing birds have been living entire dramatic little lives above our heads while we’ve been inside arguing with customer service and reheating coffee for the third time.
Have you ever really watched birds?
Not casually.
Not while scrolling your phone pretending to listen to your spouse.
I mean actually watched them.
Sat down.
No distractions.
Coffee getting cold beside you.
Just staring into trees like an unemployed park ranger going through something.
If you have a bird feeder, you know exactly what happens.
Your backyard slowly turns into a tiny winged version of a neighborhood bar.
The regulars all show up.
Blue jays arrive loud for absolutely no reason.
Cardinals move like retired mob bosses.
Finches travel in nervous little groups like suburban Long Island moms entering HomeGoods together.
Crows walk around like they have state secrets.
And robins?
Robins act like middle managers.
Very busy.
Deeply concerned.
No clear purpose.
At first, most birds look the same.
Brown.
Gray.
Tiny heartbeat with feathers.
But if you sit still long enough, your eyes adjust.
You start noticing personalities.
Patterns.
Fear.
Confidence.
You begin predicting who’ll leave the tree first.
Who hangs back.
Who swoops in fast and grabs seed like they’ve been hurt before.
And every once in a while…
something rare shows up.
Not because it’s rare necessarily.
Because most of us aren’t still long enough to see it.
The other day, I saw one.
Orange chest.
Black wings.
A streak of white.
The thing looked like it had somewhere important to be.
It landed near the feeder for maybe two seconds before disappearing back into the trees.
I froze.
Then immediately became the kind of middle-aged man who whispers…
“…what the hell was that?”
I Googled "Orange and black bird New York.”
Which is exactly how every dad over forty begins his "research".
And there it was.
Baltimore Oriole.
Not the baseball team.
I’m a Mets fan, which, at this point of the season, deserves its own therapy session.
Suddenly, my entire emotional well-being depended on seeing this bird again.
So I waited.
I threw birdseed across the lawn near the feeder while our chickens wandered around eating strawberries my kids had demanded two days earlier and now considered poison.
The chickens immediately attacked the birdseed like guys at a Super Bowl buffet.
I kept chasing them away.
“Not for you! MOVE!”
Which is a ridiculous sentence to yell at animals you personally chose to own.
Twenty minutes passed.
Nothing.
Thirty minutes.
Still nothing.
And slowly, without even realizing it, I started doing what humans always do with beautiful things.
I started trying to force the moment back.
Like if I waited hard enough…
wanted hard enough…
controlled enough…
I could make wonder return on command.
But wonder doesn’t work like that.
Neither does grace.
Eventually I gave up and headed toward the house.
Halfway there, my hat fell off.
I bent down, muttering the sound every man over forty makes when picking something up off the ground...somewhere between a grunt and a prayer…
and there it was.
The oriole.
Twenty feet in front of me.
Bright orange against the grass like a living flame.
Just hopping there.
Completely unbothered by my searching.
My waiting.
My trying too hard.
For one second, the world went quiet.
Then it flew away.
Gone.
And somehow that tiny moment made my entire week...my month.
Maybe that’s the thing nobody tells you about God.
You usually won’t find Him while you’re chasing.
Or forcing.
Or demanding signs.
Sometimes He waits until your hands are finally empty.
Until you stop reaching.
And then He lets something beautiful land by you for a second…
just long enough to remind you life was never as ordinary as you thought.
Comments