The scruffy wee robin perched on the chair back, tilting her
head this way and that. She flitted onto the shaky wooden bannister of the
children’s playhouse. Her head continued to incline, first one way, then
another.
We thought she was interacting with us. But no. She swooped
down, onto the grass lying in the shade of the canopy, and with her beak,
flicked up an enormous worm.
For the next few minutes, we watched as she seemed to flick
it around. It looked far too big for her to eat, but perhaps she ate it one
bite at a time. She didn’t swallow it in one giant gulp.
Even in the pressure of having to eat her body-weight (or
something like that) every day, she knew the value of stillness. Of observation.
Of expectation even. And she was rewarded with a generous meal.
I remember the title of a book: Too busy not to pray. May I
live by that maxim, Lord, aware that it’s in the quiet, reflective moments that
I am fed the most nourishing, life-sustaining truths.
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