When You Need a Cardinal

As I sat in a small corner of my patio just after dawn, I wasn’t sure if the morning’s erratic winds would allow me to linger in that special spot, surrounded by a trellis of fragrant jasmine, trays of colorful calibrachoa, and a large container of bright orange firecracker plants.  A new and much long-for fountain gurgled beside me.  A recently installed hummingbird feeder awaited the first visit of those tiny dynamos.  It was a fine start to the day, a day when I could look with optimism towards the warming sun and the abatement of recent storms. Could?  That is the operative word, for instead of being buoyed by my typical early-morning joie-de-vivre, a tinge of sadness crept ever closer to my heart. Instead of shooing it away (as I often do to the pesky mosquitos) I paused to touch that tender spot in my heart. Touched it, then clung to it, then fully embraced it, as I recalled difficult times, hurtful words and some thoughtless acts that had sent my soul spiraling off to places of self-doubt, regret, and yes, even grief.  Uncharacteristically, I stayed there in that inner space, lost in what were surely necessary new insights. Necessary, perhaps, but painful, nonetheless.  

I sipped my coffee; I journaled; I prayed; I reflected; I waited for a soothing Spirit to comfort me as the moments elapsed and the sun rose ever higher. Soon the day’s schedule and my own peripatetic self would impel me to jump into a flurry of activity, a habit that often serves as a temporary balm for those self-same tender spots.  Alas, the comfort was elusive. Even as the day’s light increased, my own inner light stayed dim. And so, I sat; and so, I waited.

Then, a movement caught my eye, just a few yards in front of me where the fence borders the edge of our clifftop and the land falls precipitously downward. A male cardinal, exquisitely adorned in red, landed on the fencepost, perched above a patch of late-blooming bluebonnets that found its way into the yard from the field below.  The cardinal sat there, first turning his head to look directly at me, and then pivoting ‘round to look down the hill. Again, he turned his head towards me. I see you, he seemed to say.  I am a witness to you and all you carry, and all you are.  I am here in this present moment to share my beauty with you. You are known. You are loved.  Again, he pivoted, looking down the hill across the open field, towards the live-oak woods, and onward into the grey-turning-blue sky. See, he said, look farther afield than your cozy spot. Release your too-familiar sorrows, strangely comfortable though they may be.  Embrace a wider view of what lies waiting for you. 

The red-tinged sentinel’s message was clear as he lingered, turning his head, first one way, then the other: Your sorrow is real, but so are your vistas. Pivot. Pivot towards the Grace that awaits you, towards the Spirit that also lingers here with us.  

Pivot– a word that in business and self-help lexicons indicates a shifting of direction. We pivot when, without completely abandoning the central point around which our lives revolve, we turn with intention and deliberation towards a new pathway.  The ability to pivot can show us the importance of our own choices and our own roles in seeking new perspectives.  Slowly or quickly, the direction changes, even while the stable core remains. Pivoting follows the wind’s energy, or responds to a new business trend, or in the world of faithful, seeking people, captures the Spirit of God’s direction as a longed-for outcome. Oh, so many, many stories of those who choose to pivot. Oh, so many, many chances we have– to discover God’s direction and to balance needed insight with clearer vision. Such a precious morning’s gift perched there before me, reflected in the bright flash of a feather, in the turn of a tiny head. Could – there’s that word again.  Could I pivot towards the Holy, towards healing, towards hope?

Sometimes, this care-worn world presses in so very closely.  Sometimes, a new perspective can present itself, unexpectedly and as transient as a bird’s too-brief presence.  Sometimes, you need a cardinal to turn his head and beckon you towards a more expansive place. Sometimes, you need to gaze steadily… and then….

Pivot.

When you need a cardinal, sometimes one appears.

I will not leave you comfortless.  I will come to you.  John 14:18 KJV

When you Need a Cardinal. Original artwork© Beth Hatcher, May, 2024