Songbird

I might as well tell you that I have moved. And been moved.

And I have a different apartment now too, closer to work. The songbird that awakens me? She’s from out here somewhere south of Portland, or at least has spent a fair amount of time here. She is a gift I know, from the most un-understandable, beyond-our-grasp gracious, beautifully benevolent, and kindly king whom we have the tear-jerking, heart-rendering, soul-soothing what—privilege? to call our Father.

I am shuttering in gratitude, really, sitting in Dad’s chair (with new cushions), among boxes in the living room by the patio and the end of it toward the kitchen. I am looking out onto a patio piled with heavy-duty garbage bags of clothes and odds—eleven of those odds—and three ends, out there where there are two trees, one with a songbird and the other (just now) with a squirrel.

I am relishing the quiet, and some solitude, and am aware that I must seek others and another here and there now, in the unfamiliar comfort. God himself calls me daily to be still, quiet, and free, but very firmly calls me to be with: to share and be shared and accept sharing, and to bless/be blessed, and to give and receive without taking from myself or those to whom I give. It is ordained by the breath of the King and it is all a flow within his kingdom Flow.

The wind of his spirit, and the river of his love.

And it comes to me each morning in the voice of a songbird . . .

And that is my new welcome mat up there, just outside a door that is always open.

And here is the last thing I heard as I pulled out of Portland and headed to this place, just before midnight on Independence Day, 2018:

It’s time to go to work.