An Unlikely Messenger
My father shares the anniversary of his death with so many others. He died on Memorial Day, right after George Floyd was murdered in 2020. Two years later, we are still grieving those losses, but added to them are recent heartbreaks in Uvalde, Buffalo, and the Ukraine. My father would want to be nowhere else. In his life, and now in his death, he would be situated in the center of the worst and say: here is where the cross of Jesus Christ matters.
As Jesus prepared his disciples for his own brutal death, he assured them:
“I will not leave you as orphans. I will come to you. Yet a little while and the world will see me no more, but you will see me. Because I live, you also will live” (John 14:18,19).
Jesus’ comfort is beyond sympathy. He knows fully the suffering; he knows fully his ability to carry us through it. Strangely this hope does not stop the hurt in loss; it helps us feel it all the more but feel it with him. The hurt makes us needy—of comfort and reassurance from the outside, not from within us. He gives it in droves. He made people write it down so we would have it when we forget. He sends messengers with his promise.
As my father was dying two years ago, I watched the Lord send a silent promise to my mother. I share it with you in the hopes of bringing comfort where you are losing or have lost those you love.
My mom had just heard a story on the radio about a woman who also lost her husband of many years. She, like the woman, had been married to her husband for 50 years. Mom was grappling with the prospect of life without her husband after the majority of her life with him. The woman’s grief on the radio had been softened by rescuing and nurturing a baby bird in her yard. My mother heard that story and wondered if God would care for her like he did for that woman? Sean, the girls and I were over visiting. She went outside to do something. As she did, a Finch literally landed on her shoulder! Sean, the girls, and I were astonished. At first, we were concerned that the bird was crazy and would attack her face! It stayed on her shoulder for a minute and a half or so, which felt like an hour. It stayed so long that our curious daughters actually petted it! Then, to my relief, it flew away to join its mate in a nearby tree. We never saw it again.
My mother was completely undone. With that little bird, God promised his faithfulness to her. Even in the loss of her husband. Even in the brutality of cancer. He would walk her through this. She was not alone. Ever. The Lord also assured me that He would care for my mom. My dad would be pleased.
“I will not leave you as orphans. I will come to you.”
God’s promise - “I will redeem this, even this” - is sealed in blood of his own wounds on the cross. His Spirit is alive in our loss, helping us to grieve, helping us to feel the hurt but not alone. Death is not the final word. Evil and violence have lost. The Lord made a fragile, common, little bird his messenger to my mom and now to us. That’s just like Him.
our girls, ages 6 and 8 at the time, petting the bird
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