“If the characters are not wicked, the book is.” We must tell stories the way God does, stories in which a sister must float her little brother on a river with nothing but a basket between him and the crocodiles. Stories in which a king is a coward, and a shepherd boy steps forward to face the giant. Stories with fiery serpents and leviathans and sermons in whirlwinds. Stories in which murderers are blinded on donkeys and become heroes. Stories with dens of lions and fiery furnaces and lone prophets laughing at kings and priests and demons. Stories with heads on platters. Stories with courage and crosses and redemption. Stories with resurrections.”
― G.K. Chesterton
I don’t know, does she look mad?
Maybe she’s just looking a bit weary, as in “not so fast missy, the jury’s still out on you!”
You may recall my mother’s day debacle.
The one I still don’t think I can talk about.
You know the one. . .
The one featuring the brand new purple martin house–the one I thought I had put together perfectly.
Then there was the husband with the best of intentions who thought he’d take down the old dilapidated purple martin house, rig a way to put up the one I screwed up assembling, all the while clueless that the bluebirds had moved into the slum, aka the old broken purple martin house.
The babies. . .oh the babies.
I can’t talk about it.
We didn’t know.
We didn’t see them. . .unitl it was too late.
Ugh. . .(picture my head hanging very very low)
Today the lopsided new martin house, the now crooked new thing that is dangling precariously on the 25 foot pole out in the field, is a constant sad reminder. . .it remains as we just can’t bring ourselves to bring it down in order to fix it.
More time must past.
Fast forward to yesterday.
I was out working in the yard, when suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw what I thought to be a blue blur swooping past my head. I quickly turned, just in time, to catch the blue tail end of a bird darting in the birdhouse.
“Could it be?”
I wondered.
I hoped.
You may recall during my lamentation of the mother’s day disaster that there are 5 bird houses scattered throughout the yard–blue bird houses to be exact. Why in the world had they not chosen one of them?!
Fast forward to today.
As I was heading out the back door, rounding the end of the garage, I saw it.
A blue head poking out of a round hole.
“Camera, where is the camera when I need it???!!”
Proof, I need proof of my redemption!!
I run back in the house.
Then back out of the house.
Ugh—it’s gone.
I pull up a chair.
I gently perch the camera on my knee, zooming in just so and proceed to wait.
In about 5 minutes, she returns.
Ahhh. . .
They’re relocating!
Starting over, again.
See the warm smile on my face.
I feel that Hope, Life and Redemption is alive and well.
This as I utter a silent thank you Lord.
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