One Wing Toward Heaven, One Wing Toward Earth

I stand facing the seemingly endless stage in front of me. I am a simple spectator, wrought with tense expectation. The show promises to be a good one. I should know. I've seen it here before.

My anticipations fluctuate with every breath of air that brushes the tawny reeds. I stand still, breathlessly expecting the grand overture to begin. The next moment I'm in la-la land again, thinking about everything but the spectacle I came to be privy to.

The wait is forever. Not that it seems like forever; it is forever. I pace the empty auditorium, only to find it less vacant than I originally suspected. There's a bluebird, sending his constant "cheer-up" message my way.

"No, I don't have to cheer up!" I shout. "Get off my shoulder, old man!"

That'll show him.

From the west wing comes a big flock of meadowlarks; golden drops of technicolor sunshine just waiting for Judy Garland to start singing. But even these bright, cheery creatures are no consolation for the absence of the transcendent.

The transcendent. It keeps me going. It reminds me every time I walk outside that I am engaging a natural world that showcases the collision of the physical and the spiritual.

There is something beyond this world. I feel it in my bones, every time I lift my binoculars heavenward to look at a bird in flight.

Every time I watch a butterfly wing past, stopping to nectar.

Every time I hear the songs of warblers, singing in the distance of my memory.

These are the moments I know that I know that we are not alone.

"RRRRR" That strangely familiar trill ripples down my spine, ripping me from my thoughts.

There are the players this expectant spectator has longed to see. Flying high above the marsh are sixteen large gray birds. Their wing beat so dreamlike, Debussy would turn green with envy.
Their call so ancient, so mysterious, it would awaken atavistic longings in the most modern soul.

They are Sandhill Cranes. Just sixteen birds; a mere pittance compared to the 500,000 that invade Nebraska every spring. But still, they are sufficient to send my imagination whirling into the distant past. One bird alone could send a spirit soaring.

I watch the majestic forms fly over my head, giving calls I hear more with my heart than with my ears. I watch as they sail out of sight, only to leave a longing for one more look.

"There must be more than this..." I mutter. The last glimpse of their imperial form confirms this notion.

I leave the theater, amazed, entranced, and wanting more.

"Cheer-up" intones the bluebird on my way out.

"All right" I concede. "Have it your way."

I'm sharing this post with Spiritual Sundays!

Photo by Jeff White

Veteran's Day

I wrote this some years back about an experience that shook me visibly at a Veteran's Musuem. Though my writing style has altered and matured in the intervening years, the sentiment stays the same. No veteran should ever be forgotten.

That is a lofty exhortation; but if we try to make it happen, we will honor our ignored heroes greatly.

The warm texas sun glistened off the beautiful statue. I had never seen anything like it. It was mammoth, made out of bronze, I believe, and fitting in its simplicity. The soldiers raising the flag at Iwo Jima is a powerful sight in itself, but to see it so huge was a truly fitting tribute to those marines who gave everything they had so that we could have everything we want. Sound trite? These statements get bandied about a good deal, but they carry extreme importance. It's close to impossible to justly capture what these people gave in service of their country.

We were in South Texas on that warm March day. Our vacation was coming to a close, and we could definetely call this trip a success. The birding had been good, the people friendly and the scenery gorgeous.

But we had some time to kill before our plane took off, so my Dad pulled this destination out of the thin blue air. I have no idea how he found this place in a state we had never been in before, but find it we did. It was a memorial to the Marines who served in the Pacific, with a special emphasis on Iwo Jima.

The special emphasis came in the form of a huge gold statue in the middle of a field. It was awe inspiring, and I wish I could remember more. I have photos, but they don't seem to do justice to this triumph of sculpture. There was a lot of information about the sculpter, but I can't recall any of it.

But I do recall the gift shop. There were mugs, DVDs, mouse-pads, T-Shirts, you name it, it was probably in there. It also doubled as a museum, where a large number of school-children were taking a tour. The noise grated on my nerves, so I moved to a corner where a large number of sweatshirts and hats would muffle the cacophany of giggles and screams.

In the corner of this room was a standard fold up chair. It was empty, but I turned around and heard the soft shuffle of wise feet heading toward it. I glanced behind me and saw a veteran of the USMC working his careful way to the chair.

Then I brokedown.

I had wanted to go up and laud him for his wonderful service to his country. I wanted to tell him all the wonderful things I had experienced because he believed that the "master race" needed to go no further. His actions allowed me to grow up in a christian home, not worrying if I was not living up to a standard. Without him, and others like him, I would not be able to see the fifty-two birds I had on this trip...

But I brokedown.

Just to see his frail old frame sitting there, lonely, desolate, forgotten by most of the people he worked to keep free, stirred something unmentionable in me. It grabbed my soul and tore down my defenses.

I had grand things to say to him, but I couldn't bring myself to say them.
I shook his hand, stared him directly in the eye, and thanked him. He may not have heard, because my voice was cracking with emotion. Then I went into the map room and felt the storm of emotions well up inside.

I spent the plane ride home reading, catergorizing my life birds, and thinking. Had I said enough to the man in red? Did I say too much? Did he think me crazy for the visible discomfort on my face as we talked? I don't know because my emotions got the better of me at the time.

Now six or seven months have gone by. Birds have migrated through, graduation has come and gone, girlfriends have come and gone, work, play, college, all these things have had their season in my life and have passed. But I silently hope that honored old man still sits in that museum/gift shop. I hope he sits there as an immutable reminder to us all, of the courage and sacrifice of all veterans.

Thank a Veteran any Day.

Thank God for what he's given us in them.

I'm sharing this with Brag On God Fridays.

Breath of God

For seven months of the year, we tend to take trees for granted. In Southern New Jersey particularly, the notion of driving by hundreds of these majestic creations is something taken as matter of fact .

But come October, the trees announce their presence in earnest; they herald their existence in exclamations too loud to miss. Like tragic heroes about to die, they make their presence known in a most dramatic fashion.

Lining our roadsides in large numbers, sassafras trees give a wide variety of colors come the fall. These trees paint with a palette that encompasses anything from light green to deep red.

Unlike the other wildlife I like to observe, trees sit still long enough to let me make my judgments about their aesthetic appeal. At times, they seem straight and narrow, as plain as any other tree.

But viewed from underneath, the leaves become a dazzling kaleidoscope of bewildering reds and greens.

This black gum shows the typical fall foliage of the species; various shades of red, usually leaning toward the darker shade of the spectrum.

And here's a close up view of black gum leaves:

But these creatures of beauty are not just pretty faces. This winged sumac shrub provides valuable seeds for migrating songbirds. This particular shrub shows the grapple between life and death, summer and autumn.


Trees are valuable to God as well. He references them numerous times in the writing of his word; whether it's comparing the strength of a nation to the cedars of lebanon, or comparing the strength of the godly to a tree planted by a river, it's hard to get away from these wondrous creations in God's testament.

We should be thankful for this time of year; a time when God lets his less appreciated creation strut their stuff. We also need the reminder about how crucial these trees are to our well being.

They absorb sunlight in large amounts, letting us enjoy their shade.

They give us the wood with which we shelter just about everything we hold dear.

They produce the oxygen necessary for survival, giving off the breath of God.

And these few reasons barely scratch the surface of the benefits given by these sleeping giants. We have much to praise God for in the gift of these woody beauties.

And if the awe and wonder of a sassafras tree gone up in metaphorical flames were the only reason to give thanks, that would be reason enough.

Apples of His Eye

Somewhere,I suspect that there are beauty pageants for birds. Here's my imagination at work; my educated guess at what these displays of avi-fauna attractiveness look like.

Our first contestant is the ever popular, ever loved, Eastern Bluebird! Their nickname is the "Bird with Earth on its breast, and Sky on its back." And what a beauty they are!

But these neat little thrushes are more than pretty faces; they are also advocates for those who are in need of housing; hundreds and hundreds of bluebird houses are erected every spring for these fantastic fliers to seek shelter in.

This species is also the poster child for magazine covers, coffee table books, and sweaters that somehow find their way into thrift stores time and time again. They're industrious, crafty and full of vim and vinegar. And who couldn't fall in love that vibrant mix of electric blue and rusty brown?

Yes, it's everyone's favorite: the fun, the flashy, the endearing Eastern Bluebird!

(Thunderous Applause; Whistles, Cheers)

Next in line, is, is, is well, the Chipping Sparrow.

It, uhhh, measures five and a half inches long, is gray and brown...

Its song sounds like an insect...

(Polite Applause; then silence; then crickets)

So there we have it; America's darling of a songbird, the Eastern Bluebird...

(The Crowd Goes Wild)

And that sparrow you sometimes see in your backyard that needs a voice lesson...

(The Crowd Sits Down)

Hmmm, cast your votes, but while you're doing that, this word just came in from our sponsor:

"The Chipping Sparrrow, though small and dull, has God's presence promised it. Guaranteed. A Chippy can't die without God being there. No matter how dull and gray they may be...His eyes are on the sparrow."

(The Crowd Leans Forward, Longing. They Want To Be a Sparrow)

Just a needed reminder that God's presence can turn any popularity contest on its head.

I'm sharing this Hear it On Sunday, Use it on Monday.

Perpetually Perfect

I have spent a good deal of time around artists in the few years I've walked this earth. And whenever I come away from an experience with an artist, I feel a sense of awe. Whether they are a photographer, painter, or poet, they all generally posses a skill most of us long for; the ability to capture a perfect moment in time. The artwork these talents hand down to us are monuments to the moments in time we cherish; those rare spaces in life where everything seems to fit just right. Those who capture these rare harmonious happenings are the artists whose influence stands the longest. Here are three of my favorite pieces of art.

This pull-along, male Wood Duck was my first toy. Ever. It was hand-made by a neighbor; a kindly woman who eventually succumbed to breast cancer. As it stands, this duck holds a lot of significance in my life; it serves as a reminder of the giving soul who took so much time and energy to produce a well crafted toy for a newborn down the street.

It also serves as a reminder of the beauty that surrounds us in the natural world. I forgot I still had this toy when I started exploring wildlife; before I rediscovered it, the Wood Duck had become my favorite waterfowl. When I look on this simple pull-along, I am reminded of the many times I've encountered this bird, serenely floating along some wooded pond. Such sudden instances of peace and calm keep me grounded as life goes by at a frantic pace.

Twenty-two years later, I would receive this intricate carving of an American Avocet for a birthday present. It was one those pieces of art that demands your attention. I remember showing this gift to one of the world's finest birders soon after receiving it. His strong shows of approval over the carver's merit were well founded. But even more impressive than the carving would have to be the paint job. Every fine plumage detail is captured in all its glory here. I have seen countless other carvings of the same bird, and none come close to this fine piece of workmanship.

My most recent acquisition is this painting of a Blackburnian Warbler painted by a friend from my church. Titled "Alert" it shows a fine spring-plumage "fire-throat" on the outlook for potential danger.

When I received this painting a few weeks ago, I stood a bit paralyzed by the attention to detail expended upon my commission. The depth of field, the stark colors, the single dead leaf, all these intricacies added up to a phenomenal purchase. I had always complimented my friend on her distinctive artwork; with this picture, she had raised the bar significantly.

-----

With all these perpetually perfect moments stored in my mind, I find a quiet place and take a walk with a Friend. Not just any Friend, but the Name above all Names, the Friend above all Friends. In some cool, verdant region, I stroll along with the Creator in a perfect abode. An area where the squeals of Wood Ducks ring like pleasant melodies in their Maker's ears. A region where American Avocets fly by with all the freedom they were intended to have. A special place where Blackburnian Warblers no longer sing for the sake of survival, but for the sake of glory.

We walk along, talking about the topics that are near and dear to our hearts. In the cool of the evening, we find communion as natural as if we were never separated.

Somewhere along our stroll, I look to His face, and ask Him the question that sits somewhere within each believer, "How can I walk with you?"

"Because I love you," comes the concise reply.

"But I swear, by accident, now and then," I confess involuntarily.

"I know," the cool, unaffected response returns.

"Don't you know how prideful I can act," I question, hoping to see some sign of pity, but only finding looks of knowledge.

"I know you were prideful a few days ago. I know you will be so tomorrow, too," comes the unexpected response.

"Then how can I walk with you?" I ask again, with undertones of bewilderment.

"Because you're perpetually perfect, my friend." A response that cuts through my tired questions, bringing balm to my tired spirit.

"Because of the love and dedication of my son, you are washed and holy in my sight. I see you through the blood of my son; I have captured you as you were always meant to be."

I pause, reeling in the truth of who I am. I have been captured perpetually perfect; I have good standing with my Friend of Friends, Lord Of Lords.

We exchange glances; mine expressing my overwhelmed emotions, His, expressing his faithfulness and grace.

We then continue on, confident that this is a walk that will never end.

I am sharing this with Brag on God Fridays.

In The Form of a Dove

Whenever a rare bird shows up around Cape May, it can expect its privacy to be invaded within minutes of its discovery.

Like a well-oiled machine, instant communication devices alert birders of these avian anomalies with a speed unimaginable.

I am often the benefactor of these high-tech reports, and when I heard of a Eurasian Collared-Dove nearby, I wasted no time in jumping in my car and following the precise directions to the location of interest.

On the way over, I formulated a mental picture of the bird so I could have a head start on finding it. I imagined myself standing there, like a ninny, in front of the houses of Cape May Point, helplessly scanning the telephone wires. You never know how rare birds will act; they're rare, they have free reign to act however they feel fit.

I slowly coasted up to the address, and quietly got out of my car. In synchronization with my body leaving my driver's seat, the bird non-nonchalantly flew up on a wire, staring at me as if I had been late for some long-standing appointment.

You never know how rare birds will act, I noted, sardonically.

But before I could finish my thought, the unexpected happened. My car door slipped from my grip, causing a loud bang to echo through the vinyl canyons of Cape May Point.

Ahh!, I grunted, shamed at my lack of discipline, and expecting the worst.

But it was no matter to my long-lost friend. He simply stretched his neck and preened a few feathers.

That didn't startle you, did it? And if doves understand rhetorical questions, I imagine he found it very profound.

If my lack of vigilance didn't scare this bird from his roost, the BMW roaring down the street surely would.

I leaped behind my car to avoid being a fatality of such a nice vehicle. The man continued to talk on his phone, completely unaware that he was doing well above the speed limit.

Once past, I rose from behind my shelter, only to be serenely greeted by my European visitor yet again.

You're made of sterner stuff than I, my friend. If doves understand compliments, I'm sure his ego must have swelled a little.

After a few more moments of observation, I got in my car and left the Arnold Schwarzenegger of doves behind. As I drove off along the tourist stocked streets, I thought of the importance of doves in Biblical literature.

They acted as assurances of floods gone by.

They were an integral element of the romance between King Solomon and his beloved.

They were a picture of innocence to our Lord.

But perhaps most importantly, we're told at the beginning of Christ's ministry, the Holy Spirit was sent to Him in "like a dove." This picture of the peaceful power of the Holy Ghost has been a familiar visual to the saved and unsaved alike. Whether it's used as an emblem for the Quakers or a Calvary Chapel, the impact the picture of the dove has had on Christianity is profound.

I need that Dove in my life; I need the Holy Spirit more than bread, more than water.

I find a life invaded by the Holy Spirit is just like that dove on the wire; no matter how many "door slams" life throws at me, I can sit in perfect peace.

I also find that encounters with the Holy Ghost are predictable; He's available to meet with me whenever I choose to seek him. Like the dove greeting me like a long lost friend, a search for this Helper is always fruitful.

I couldn't imagine winning any battles without this crucial comforter. It's with his help the Word of God leaps off the page and cuts straight through my heart. It's his coming along side that takes the fleshly tendencies that were once so dominant, and keeps them far away from my mind. It's his gentle leading that shepherds me along this earthly pilgrimage.

I remember once chatting with a friend, when a white dove flew by, probably released from a wedding. This apparently prompted some long lost religious memory, as he quickly asked, What's the point of the Holy Spirit? From all I remember, all he did was put tongues of fire on people's heads.

I shrugged my shoulders, knowing a sufficient explanation would be lost on my friend. That knowledge can only be attained empirically.

That information can only be known by those who have had an experience with God's Comforter.

I'm sharing this with Spiritual Sundays and Brag on God Fridays.

In the Shade of The Mimosa Tree

I wasn't really shaded by the Mimosas in the area that humid August afternoon, but the title sounds like it should be an Eugene O'Neill play, and it's been rattling around my head for the past several weeks.

Through this blog, I am opening a doorway for you to view my special place; a place of refuge that is closed to the rest of humanity. I'm not the only with this type of hide-away; most, if not all, people have a place for safe observation and contemplation. The idea even has biblical precedent in the concept of a "prayer closet."

And so, let's take a walk through my secluded spot, and hopefully you'll be inspired to leave no corner unexplored in your secret space.

Upon leaving my car, my ears are suddenly assaulted by the electric tones of an Eastern Kingbird. This bird may be small, but it seems to be infected with Napoleon's Disease (small, but big chip on its shoulder.) His scientific name is Tyrannus tyrannus, meaning tyrant of tyrants, and I'm sure the number of birds that he harassed could attest to this designation.

From the small and bossy, to the small and gentle, this Common Buckeye sat waiting for the sun to peek over the cloud, giving him a bit of an energy boost. Butterflies need their internal body temperatures around eighty degrees in order to maintain optimum flight. This poor fellow has a bit of his wing missing. (Maybe he met the Kingbird.)

This rusty-colored Dragonfly is probably a Needham's Skimmer. Dragonflies are cool. At once aloof and alert, they roam the air with an intensity that is hard to imagine. Dragonflies are also our good friends, since they eat a lot of mosquitoes.

I'm always surprised at how quickly the trees betray Fall's coming. It seems earlier every year, but it must be my memory playing tricks on me. Here's a Sassafras Tree showing the struggle between Autumn and Summer, life and death. (You can make Sassafras Tea and Root Beer from the roots of this gorgeous plant.)

Let's take a pause and enjoy the Eastern Comma in repose. He may be practicing for the long overwintering stage that could come for him later on. Upon finding a hollow tree or clump of leaf litter, these beautiful bugs will spend the colder months in our area.

Back to birds, this Mockingbird demonstrated his heartiness by continuing to sing well into the afternoon, well past the time when birds need to sing. Mockingbirds are our most talented mimics, and are adept at imitating other species of birds. But birds are not the only things subject to this mimicry; Mockingbirds can mimic anything from car alarms to police sirens.

And finally, though I didn't take refuge under the shade of the Mimosa, others utilized this colorful non-native plant. This Spicebush Swallowtail has found some intriguing nectar in the pink flowers of the Mimosa. Though it doesn't belong in our area, it is beautiful, and wildlife has adapted to its presence.

Finally, here's hoping you get a chance to sail away on the tides of discovery. And discovery starts right in your own back yard.