What Do You Need to Hear Today?

(Matthew 6:26 ESV)

One hundred eleven verses comprise the Sermon on the Mount.

Answering the question: How should I live?

Jesus likely gave multiple versions of this same sermon, or parts of the sermon, to different audiences in different villages.

Probably in different ways.

Personal ways.

Perceiving individual struggles and what, specifically, each person needed to hear that day.

I might have passed by this one look-at-the-birds-of-the-air verse, reading right on through to the next, if something outside my window hadn’t caught my eye, distracted me, and interrupted my flow.

Or what I thought should be my flow.

Two tiny Carolina wrens flit about.

From the porch rockers, onto the railing, up to the fan, and back again.

My grandmother loved birds.

Treasured her bird books.

My mother-in-law too.

Even Ron loved birds.

My interest, however, has never been more than passing.

Until these two appear.

Right on cue.

As I’m reading Jesus’ words.

“Look at the birds of the air . . .”

His invitation feels urgent.

A call to pause.

Picture myself seated on that hillside.

Shifting my gaze to the sky.

To the birds.

I can’t imagine how birds will relate to anything I need to hear today, but I press on.

They neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns,

and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.

Jesus directs our attention to what the Father is doing.

And to what the birds are not doing.

Making me wonder, besides eating, what are the birds doing?

No idea.

Dusting off my grandmother’s bird books, I discover that Carolina wrens:

Stick around all year.

Weather every season’s weather.

And sing.

A cheerful tea-kettle tea-kettle song.

All day long.

Jesus never says, “Live like a wren,” but the implication is there.

Because if I lived like a wren I would:

Gracefully accept each season of life.

No matter the weather.

Intentionally recognize the Father’s provision there.

And sing in gratefulness.

All day long.

Look at the birds of the air . . .

Everyone on the hillside that day likely heard what they needed to hear.

According to their individual struggles.

But sometimes seeing what we need to hear is what we need.

Like now.

When seeing-what-I-need-to-hear walks through my front door.

I’ll call him Alejandro.

As Alejandro works on restoring my ceiling and walls, it’s hard not to notice his unusual gait.

But it’s not until he’s tapping lids back on paint cans and folding up his ladder that he shares his story.

He was the victim of a violent crime – gunshot straight through his abdomen.

A mortal wound.

But many prayers went up.

And Alejandro lived.

Somewhere in the healing process his legs had to be drained.

Leaving behind his unusual gait.

Alejandro could be bitter.

But he’s not.

Gazing heavenward he shrugs, “I’m here now. This is where I am . . . and what I’ve got . . . and I am grateful.”

I try hard not to weep on the spot.

Alejandro is the “wren” I want to be.

Living with grace in the season at hand, no matter the weather, recognizing provision from above, and singing in gratefulness.