Nightingale Songs

Our Father in heaven likes songs so much that He filled the earth with birds. Each one has its own special song to sing. When the sun peeks its head up each morn, they all sing together to make a chorus of beautiful music.

The cardinals sing a song of joy:
“Sunny day! Come and play. Cheer! Cheer! Cheer! Cheer!”

The wren sings a song of love:
“Ooh la la! My Cherie, won’t you come and be my bride?”

The blue jays sing a song of warning:
“Look out! A person! A dog! Beware! Beware!”

The chickadees can hardly sing for chortling:
“Tee hee! Tee hee! Giggledy ha, ha, ha, ha!”

The mockingbirds sing songs of echo:
“Cheer! Cheer! Be my bride! Beware! Beware! Teehee! Tee hee! Ha ha ha!”

They sing, and they sing,
Songs of cheer and love and warning.
But when the sun ducks its head below the western hills
And the winking moon awakes in the east,
The daybirds cease their melodies.
The cardinals sing their young a lullaby.
The wren stops his wooing and tucks himself into his empty flower pot.
The blue jays let the owls take their turn as sentry:
“Whoo! Whoo! Whooo goes there?”

The darkness wraps the land like a blanket,
And the nightingale takes up her song.

She sings a song of darkness.
She sings a song of loneliness.

She sings, “O God my Maker!
O Lord! O heavenly Father!”

She asks, “How long?
How long will the dark night last?
How long until the sunshine of Your face returns?
How long must I sing this lonely tune?
How long?
How long?”

She cries, “Why?
Why did the sparrow fall today?
Why did the bobcat slash?
Why did You let that hailstone strike?
Why?
Why?
Why?”

All the tears her eyes can’t cry pour forth from her throat.
At last, Venus the morning star gleams in the east.

The nightingale asks, “Maker God,
Send back Your light.
Send out Your truth.
Show us Your goodness.
Shine with Your grace.”

The first bluing of the sky begins to lighten.
Morning draws near.

The nightingale breathes out the last of her melody,
“Good night.
Good morning.
Let me rest now in peace, for You are near.
The darkness will lift.
The sun does come again.”

The sun stretches sleepy arms above the eastern trees.
The cardinals wake and sing their song of cheer.
The wren returns to his wooing.
The blue jays take up their watch again.
The chickadees laugh.
The mockingbirds mimic.
The owls tuck heads under wings and fall asleep.
The nightingale, her song drained dry,
Rests in God her Maker till darkness falls again.

Sun shines.
God smiles over all the many songs He hears,
But He draws closer than close to the nightingale.
He shelters her under His wing, close to His heart.
He treasures her brokenhearted song
And comforts her sorrow

With Himself.

Autumn Hope

The trees are weeping

Great arid tears

Of scarlet, gold, and flame—

Mourning winter’s onset

And doubting spring will come again.

Autumns sings in a minor key,
bagpipes droning the slave trader's hymn.
Loss, surrender, relinquishment thrum
beneath the glory of the turning leaves,
the crisp cool air,
the gentler light.

Even as tree limbs release
their grip on summer's glory
and exhalations of wind carry it
down, down, down to the earth,
farmers gather in their harvests,
the golden glory-fruit of so many seeds of hope
buried in soil nourished
by the weeping of the trees.

"I assure you: Unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains by itself. But if it dies, it produces a large crop" (John 12:24, HCSB).

How Happy We Would Be!

    Once there was a little Johnny Jump-up with a gold and violet face.  All day long he hung his head and sighed, “Oh me, oh my.  Oh my, oh me.  If only I were tall and elegant like the rose, how happy I would be!”
    On a trellis nearby grew a tall, slender climbing rose with petals like the flush of a baby’s cheek.  All day long she hung her head and sighed, “Oh me, oh my.  Oh my, oh me.  If only I were strong and useful like the apple tree, how happy I would be.”
    Overhead arched the strong limbs of the apple tree, laden with sweet red fruit.  All day long he drooped his branches and sighed, “Oh me, oh my.  Oh my, oh me.  If only I had a cozy nest and a family to love like the robin, how happy I would be.”
    In its branches lived a little robin redbreast, hovering over her nest of speckled blue eggs.  All day long she hung her head and sighed, “Oh me, oh my.  Oh my, oh me.  If only I were free to soar into the sky like the eagle, how happy I would be.”
    Aloft soared the eagle, alone and splendid.  All day long he hung his head and sighed, “Oh me, oh my.  Oh my, oh me.  If only I could fly into heaven itself like the angels, how happy I would be.”
    In the heavens themselves, the angels went about serving God and His children among men.  One sad angel hung his head and sighed, “Oh me, oh my.  Oh my, oh me.  If only I could reign like God, with all things serving me, how happy I would be!”

    “O foolish, rebel creature!” said God.  “There is no God but Me.  Away with you into the outer darkness!”
    “As for you, silly eagle, “said the Lord, “If you flew into heaven, who would show the new strength I promise and the heights to which I call My people?”
    “As for you, little robin,” said the Lord, “If you soared like the eagle, who would show forth My tender care and provision for the smallest of My creatures?”
    “As for you, mighty tree,” said the Lord, “If you nested and nurtured like the robin, who would bring forth sweet fruit for the strength and joy of My people?”
    “As for you, precious rose,” said the Lord, “If you grew tall and thick like the apple tree, who would show the world both the beauty and the pain of life in this sinful world?”
    “As for you, tiny flower,” said the Lord, “If you were tall and elegant like the rose, who would make men smile and forget their worries in the beauty I lavish on the very ground they tread?”
    “O foolish creatures!  If you would only stop fretting over what you are not and enter into My joy in making you as you are, how happy you would be!”

Pottery {A Poem}

Pounding,

Pummeling,

Pressing,

Pulling,

Pinching,

Piercing,

Paring,

The Potter's hands prod the clay

With persistent patience.

Every empty hollow,

Every strip removed,

Though painful to the vessel,

Shapes it into suitability.

What is lost

Is only

What did not look like Him.

The Potter's perfect, sure pressure

Peels nothing away

That would prove essential

To His purpose and plan.


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Last Wednesday, August 7, marked the 9th anniversary of this blog. Pottery is the traditional gift for 9 years. These have been the most painfully formative 9 years of my life so far, in ways I could never have imagined when I hit “publish” on that first post. Considering how all those surgeries, bereavements, appointments, painful family situations, and other opportunities to experience God’s strength in my weakness relate to the theme of pottery led me to scribble out the above. May it encourage you also to rest in our good Potter’s hands. Thank you for reading. Your presence here is a blessing and a grace.

Mundane

The difference between the ordeal of Sisyphus—
Pushing, pushing, pushing the boulder uphill;
Then the rolling, rolling, rolling back down
Just as he neared the top—
And the sacrament of the ordinary—
Performing the endless everyday
In the grace,
Through the power,
For the glory of God—
Is a Savior,
A surrender,
A sacrifice of praise.

An altar stands irrevocably,
The narrow gate of transformation,
Between meaningless mundane misery
And duty infused and illuminated by
The beauty of the Almighty.