I stepped over a baby bird on the sidewalk today, and I only determined that's what it was after a moment of curiosity caused me to backtrack and examine further.
My heart sank when I learned the violent truth. But it was certain. There are her feathers. That's a small beak. Look at the curve of an unused wing.
While my skin was crawling with the cold reality of a death come too soon, I pictured You watching from up above and down below and from every other vantage point we've never even considered. At 9:23 a.m., or whatever time baby bird fell, someone in Africa was hungry and prayers from China tallied high and an Australian mom desperate for her baby to sleep while night fell called your name. Still you knew this bird hit the ground, and I very nearly saw the rest of the world fade and the vignette frame this poor creature--what Your eyes undoubtedly saw.
How many feathers did she have? 954? I don't know, but you do. And did she yet sing a song or peep to her mother for food? I don't know, but you do. You saw her tucked warm inside her shell and designed the way she eventually left it. You shed a tear for your beautiful, once living thing.
These are the moments I know You are true because how could I learn hope from darkness even but that it was you? Now I will remember that at 11:58 when the house is quiet and the city is not; when everyone else sleeps but it evades me; when a businessman sits befuddled and suicidal in his office; or when someone on the other side of the world fears for her life--even then, it's okay to say, "God, are you there?" And you will be above me and below me and in every other corner where I never imagined I'd find you and you will hear me. You will know how many are my hairs and when exactly I will find my voice and how I will use it. You will remember what I looked like tucked inside my mother's womb and how you designed the way I eventually left it. You will remind me that I am your beautiful, living thing.