This spring, a thrasher, which is a tan bird about the size of a robin, made a nest in a bush outside of a window in my kitchen nook. It was the perfect vantage point. I’d peak through the blinds, careful not to scare the bird, who I named JoJo, to see how she was doing. She sat on her nest faithfully.
One day, I saw JoJo perched on the back patio, watching me wash the dishes through the wide, bay window. I stared back. “What are you doing off your nest, JoJo?” I asked through the window. “You better sit back down.” I dried my hands, walked to the window and looked through the blinds. The eggs had hatched. JoJo had not abandoned her eggs; rather, she was hunting for breakfast.
For days, I watched the brood. At first they looked like fuzzy raisins. “You’re so ugly, you’re cute,” I told them through the glass. In time, I could distinguish their wings and legs, and their feathers were more defined. When they napped, they huddled together so closely that I could not distinguish one bird from the next.
JoJo and her husband, who I named Chip, dedicated their days to feeding their children. When JoJo or Chip hopped to the nest, the babies flung their necks in the air, beaks wide open—just like in the nature documentaries I enjoy watching. Then, JoJo or Chip would drop food into their beaks and fly away.
One Friday afternoon as I drove home from work, the sky darkened and the clouds threatened to rain. I headed to the store in hope of beating the rain, but there was a downpour. I worried about the birds in the nest. What if they drowned? As soon as I got home, I went to the window and peeked through the blinds. There was JoJo, sitting on her babies.
JoJo saw me and flew away. Instantly, the babies’ heads popped up, and they flung their beaks open, ready for their afternoon snack. They were more than fine.
I chuckled to myself, imagining what it must have been like for the four siblings, mooshed together in the darkness. Maybe it was hot and smelly. Maybe they poked each other with their beaks and talons. Maybe it was so tight that none of them could move.
It is likely that the baby birds did not realize that their lives were in jeopardy because they had no concept of downpours or death. They were merely aware of their hunger and the cramped, hot environment their mother created as she sat on them. JoJo, however, was keenly aware of the destruction that storms bring, and she knew the temporary discomfort her babies would face outweighed death by storm.
JoJo’s expert protection reminded me of Psalm 91:4-6.
He will cover you with his feathers,
and under his wings you will find refuge;
his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.
You will not fear the terror of night,
nor the arrow that flies by day,
nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness,
nor the plague that destroys at midday.
There are seasons of life in which we do not sense the threat of danger. We eat, we sleep, and we spend time with our families—much like JoJo, Chip and the baby birds We have a comfortable routine, and the weather is pleasant.
But in time, darkness gradually emerges, and while we may notice the change, we are not overly concerned because our lives continue as they did before. Like the baby birds, we continue to eat and sleep. Our routines stay the same, even though our environment is changing. But the Lord, who sees and understands all things, knows that the gradual change in our environment is more than shifting shadows; the shadows are warnings of a great storm. Like JoJo, He covers us with His feathers because He knows that we do not have the strength or resources to survive the storm.
While the darkness may seem vaguely familiar, we are distracted by the discomfort we experience. In many cases, we wrestle with the dark weight that rests above us. We yell, punch, and cry at the weight because we are hungry and scared and confused. “Why is it so dark? Why is my life so uncomfortable? What did I do?” We complain and shout these questions into the darkness, but we do not realize that the darkness is not punishment, or some form of evil or violence, but protection.
We are taught to resist darkness, but there is only one form of darkness that is good—and that is the one that emerges because the Lord covers us with Himself to guard our lives because we are too helpless to protect ourselves.