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Broken Beyond Repair

It isn’t every day you witness a miracle. I suppose it would become ordinary, commonplace or at the very least, lose its wonder if you did. Some might question the validity of what happened on that cold, winter day, but I know God showed up.

It had been a stressful few months with the needs of so many weighing heavily on my soul. I found myself wondering on more than one occasion how much longer I could bear the load. Many were the nights I cried out, “God, I’m only one person. I can’t do this alone. But you are my strength, and I will trust You.” But I was running on empty.

It was on a frigid Sunday morning that I was beyond exhausted and couldn’t even drag myself to church. I stood in my bathrobe and slippers, my hair unkempt, gazing out the kitchen window at the newly fallen snow, so pure and beautiful. How I love that view in the wintertime. There was never a doubt in my mind that if Norman Rockwell could have seen this splendor with its snow-covered pine trees, the lovely little pond, and the faded red barn in the background, he would have wanted to capture it on canvas. But on that day my heart was as cold as ice, and I couldn’t remember a time I’d felt so overwhelmed. I had lost my joy. My only prayer, “God, please make Yourself big to me today.”

Just as those words escaped my lips, I heard a familiar “thud.” I knew that sound all too well. A bird had run into the patio door. Unfortunately, this had become a fairly regular occurrence. After 41 years of living in this house you would think I’d be used to that noise. But no. The sound has always unnerved me a bit. Over the years I’ve been ever-so-grateful that those poor reckless birds always flew away seemingly unscathed. Not that day, though. My heart sank as I watched that sweet little thing drop to the deck floor. I ran to the door, knelt in front of him and stared at his lifeless, broken body as a tear ran down my cheek. It was a chickadee, no less. My favorite. His body was so badly contorted, his wings bent in every wrong direction and his tail feathers so very broken. “Oh, God, no,” was all I could seem to utter.

  Just as I had given up all hope, he looked straight at me and blinked. I quickly realized he was still breathing. He was alive! He was still alive! I knew I had to do something. I had no idea what, but I knew God would show me. Knowing time was of the essence, I donned my warmest snow gear and headed outside as fast as I could. Kneeling next to him in the snow, I picked him up and held him gently in my hands. Surprisingly, he wasn’t the least bit afraid.

My initial plan was to take him from the deck where he had fallen to the gazebo only feet away and lay him on the table, so he wouldn’t have to die in the snow. Looking back, that seems more than a little ridiculous since I would have been staring at his cold, lifeless body out my kitchen window every time I did the dishes.

For reasons unknown to me at the time, I simply sat down with him in the gazebo, one of my favorite places to meet with God on warm summer mornings. It never once occurred to me that it would be in that blessed place on a frigid January day that my Lord would make himself big, just as I had asked.

That precious little thing sat in the palm of my hand, never taking his eyes off me. As impossible as it may seem, it felt as though he was trying to tell me something—almost as if he was counting on me. Though my brain told me he was broken beyond repair, everything in my spirit said, “Don’t give up. Don’t give up. God is still God.”

You should probably know that I am what some would refer to as extreme when it comes to animals. I see the wonder and beauty in every living thing, knowing each was created for a purpose. We are naturally attracted to one another, and I lavish my love on each one who comes within reach. But here was this helpless creature expecting something from me I was powerless to give.

“Please help me, Lord. I don’t know what to do,” I whispered into the frosty air, hoping to hear more than the echo of my own words returning back to me. But the only sound was the harsh winter wind blowing through the gazebo.

Wanting my wounded feathered friend to at the very least feel loved, I began gently stroking his head and back. I couldn’t fix him, but I could let him feel God’s love through me. I silently released him into the Lord’s care, thinking it would somehow allow him to pass from this world into the next peacefully. I waited patiently as the minutes ticked by, but he kept breathing. “What if God wants to heal him?” I thought to myself. “What if?” My heart raced as I pondered the idea. Could it be?

As if on cue, my mind was flooded with healing scriptures, most of which I hadn’t committed to memory. Tears ran down my face as I spoke each one of them over his broken little body, knowing full well the power in praying the Word of God. But there was no change. His chest rose and fell with every breath, but not so much as a feather moved. I believed with everything in me that God could heal him and that it was not time to give up. With his gaze firmly fixed on mine, I stood to my feet and proclaimed with authority, “Be healed in Jesus’ name, little one. Be healed in Jesus’ name.” I have no idea how many times I repeated those words, as the moments seemed to slip by unnoticed.

Suddenly, I felt the slightest movement in my hand. I stared with wide-eyed wonder as his contorted body began to slowly shift back into shape, one feather at a time. My own breath came in short pants now as I watched this miracle being performed right before my eyes. I could even hear his feathers snapping back into place. And the whole time, my little chickadee never took his eyes off me.

I wish I could tell you how long this whole process took, but I have no idea. Time simply stood still.


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After a while, he stood up, all his feathers in their proper place and looked at me as if to ask, “What now?”

I smiled through my tears and spoke words I knew he could not possibly understand. “I think you can fly, little one. I think you can fly.” But instead of taking flight, he hopped up my arm, cocking his head from side to side, never breaking his gaze. I desperately wanted to keep him, but I knew God had saved him for a purpose, and it was time for me to let him go. And so, with a twinge of sadness in my voice, I spoke to him one last time. “No, little one. I really think you can fly.” If I didn’t know better, I would have thought he was actually smiling at me. Then he cheeped and flew away.

I stood on the deck for the longest time afterwards, completely awestruck at what had just happened. God took something broken beyond repair and made Himself big, just as I had asked him to. And I will never be the same.

I know there’s really no way to tell one chickadee from another as they flit back and forth from my feeder to their home in the trees. But I like to think that some warm summer morning when I’m meeting with my God in the gazebo, my little miracle bird will magically appear, and we’ll enjoy one another’s company once again and remember together the day God showed up.

So, tell me, my friend … have you ever witnessed a miracle? Think back over your life. Was there ever a time when you knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that God showed up? Tell me about it, would you? I’d love to hear from you.

            Be blessed, dear one. Be blessed.

 
 
 

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