There are few things more capable of turning otherwise rational adults into deeply invested observers of creation than a backyard bird feeder.
Now, at first glance, this may seem like a relatively modest pastime.
One fills the feeder.
Birds arrive.
Everyone continues peacefully with their lives.
But this is not what actually happens.
What actually happens is that one gradually becomes emotionally involved.
Very involved.
Soon you are standing at the kitchen window offering commentary with the seriousness of a wildlife documentary narrator.
“The cardinals are back.”
“Oh, that greedy blue jay again.”
“Well now… that squirrel has developed techniques.”
And speaking of the squirrel, I should confess that I happen to have the largest squirrel I have ever encountered living almost permanently in my backyard.
My nephew Owen becomes quite upset when I describe the squirrel this way.
He insists — repeatedly — that I should not “fat shame” the squirrel.
Which is probably fair.
Still, in all my years, I have rarely witnessed a squirrel of such astonishing physical presence.
And yet that corpulent little rascal continues to display remarkable agility in launching elaborate operations against the bird feeder in pursuit of the modest offerings intended for the birds.
His ingenuity is, if anything, even more impressive than his weight.
At this point I no longer regard our interactions as conflict so much as an ongoing theological discussion about stewardship, persistence, and organized wildlife crime.
Apparently certain birds prefer black oil sunflower seed.
Others enjoy nyjer.
And somewhere during all this, one suddenly realizes one has become the sort of person who discusses finches with startling intensity.
Grace abounds.
Now, I should confess that I understand this transformation completely.
Because there is something deeply peaceful about sitting quietly and watching creation simply carry on being itself.
The chickadees arrive with cheerful confidence.
Mourning doves wander beneath the feeder conducting what appears to be a highly organized cleanup operation.
Woodpeckers descend like determined contractors evaluating structural integrity.
And overhead, somewhere in the trees, a squirrel plots its next assault with strategic brilliance.
Creation is endlessly fascinating.
And perhaps that is because the natural world quietly invites us into attentiveness.
It slows us down.
You cannot truly watch birds while remaining entirely preoccupied with deadlines and anxieties.
Sooner or later, the rhythm of creation begins gently interrupting the frantic pace of the human mind.
And perhaps that interruption is holy.
Because Ordinary Time teaches us to notice things again.
The movement of light through trees.
The sound of wind before rain arrives.
The astonishing variety of life unfolding quietly around us every single day whether we pause to observe it or not.
Jesus Himself seemed remarkably attentive to creation.
Birds.
Seeds.
Fields.
He trusted that the natural world could teach human beings something about the character of God.
And perhaps it still can.
Now, bird feeders also teach humility.
Particularly when squirrels are involved.
There comes a point in every bird-feeding journey when one enters into direct competition with wildlife.
At first, solutions appear simple.
Then the squirrel adapts.
One purchases “squirrel-proof” equipment.
The squirrel interprets this merely as an interesting new engineering challenge.
Eventually an uneasy truce develops in which everyone acknowledges that the squirrel is probably winning.
And honestly, there may be spiritual wisdom even there.
Creation was never given to us merely for control.
It was given for relationship.
Wonder.
Delight.
Stewardship.
And perhaps one of the greatest losses in modern life is how rarely we stop long enough simply to behold the world around us with gratitude.
Because creation is not background scenery.
It is alive with the generosity of God.
And perhaps one of the greatest losses in modern life is how rarely we stop long enough simply to behold the world around us with gratitude.
Because creation is not background scenery.
It is alive with the generosity of God.
Most of creation accomplishes its work quietly.
Trees grow slowly.
Birds sing without urgency.
Seasons unfold patiently.
And perhaps souls heal the same way.
So perhaps this Saturday, the invitation is wonderfully simple.
Sit outside for a while.
Fill the feeder.
Watch the birds.
Listen to the wind moving through the trees.
And allow yourself the quiet joy of remembering that the world is still filled with beauty, surprise, and life beyond your schedules and worries.
Even if the squirrel continues behaving with criminal levels of confidence.
Alleluia.
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Companion Prayer
Creator God,
Open our eyes to the beauty around us.
Teach us to slow down,
to notice creation with wonder,
and to receive the world as your gift.
Thank you for birdsong,
summer breezes,
and the quiet joy of ordinary days.
And in all the living beauty that surrounds us,
draw our hearts closer to you.
Amen.