He ... Or she ... Was just there, hovering beside a flame orange flower, his long thin beak plunged deep into the nectar of the plant. I can't hear a hum. Why don't they call them hovering birds instead? It would be more accurate.
Or would it? Perhaps the frantic, speedy beating of those tiny wings creates a hum. If I could get a bit closer and the freeway traffic would momentarily halt I might be able to hear it.
You may be able to pick it out in the picture, though it's hard enough to see when I am just a couple of feet away from it. It is silhouetted on the right, etched against the white of the garage.
Oops, sorry. Don't seem able to add a picture on my iPad.
The thing is, it takes a lot of energy and effort for the wee hummingbird to hang suspended in the air, taking sweet sustenance from the flower. But it perseveres, instinctively aware that it's life depends on it.
Why are we humans so proud, that we think we can manage our lives very well, thank you, without any need to hover daily in the presence of God, to be filled with his sweet sustenance and re-energised for the day ahead?
I think when we do find ourselves in the presence of wise people who do, in fact, linger in God's presence regularly, we may be able to hear the soft hum of a heavenly chorus or sniff the lovely fragrance of Jesus.
Have you ever noticed that?
A California girl from a hot beach city marries a country loon from the cold northeast of Scotland, and she's spent the last three decades making sense out of life there. Reflections on a rural lifestyle, on identity issues and the challenges of moving so far from home,from a Christian viewpoint.
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