Mr. Squirrel

Mr. Squirrel

Not one animal will die apart from God
~Matthew 10:29

I saw him when I turned the corner on the gravel road I was walking. I thought he was sleeping; his soft body stretched out, his head turned to the side. I expected he’d jump up and scamper away as soon as my footsteps grew closer. But he lay still. I knew then, from yards away, that he was dead.

“Oh, Mr. Squirrel,” I sighed, my heart filling with sorrow. “What happened to you?” Not a mark was on his chubby body, his gray fur bright and shiny. I stood for a few moments, admiring his beauty, then turned, and walked on.

“He’s safe with me, Sparrow,” God said as He made His presence known, His stride matching my own.

“I know. But life is such an amazing gift, I feel sad to see it come to an end,” I replied. God didn’t say anything more, allowing me to be present with my feelings. A gentle rain began to fall. I’d not worn a raincoat, so I took off my scarf and draped it over my head.

“This rain nourishes the tender seeds waiting to sprout. New life lies below the earth,” God explained. Mr. Squirrel’s body will return to the earth, to nourish that new life waiting to come forth.”

“It’s still a mystery to me, these seasons of life and death,” I confessed.

God reached out and took my hand. “It’s not a mystery at all. It’s love. It’s me,” He said tenderly.

We circled back toward home. When we came to the place where God will bury Mr. Squirel, we stopped. I looked once again at his beautiful body and gave thanks that he was a part of God’s love. I wished him well on his journey.

When We Go Home

When We Go Home

We would prefer to be out of the body and at home with God.
~2 Corinthians 5:8

“God, why do we have to die?” I asked late in the afternoon when the rain refused to stop and the sky was gray.

“The same reason why the sun sets every evening. It is the natural rhythm of things,” God said as we stood at the window together, looking out on the soggy day.

“But the sun returns. We don’t. It seems so…” I searched for the word. “Sad.”

“I can see how you could think that,” God replied. “But there is more to death than sorrow.”

“What more is there?”

“When your spirit leaves your flesh and bones for the earth to claim, there will be the joy in coming back to me,”

“That sounds lovely, but It’s still hard to let go of all we have here,” I said honestly.

“I know, Sparrow. Remember, I hung on a cross. I know what it’s like.” God reached out and wrapped His arms around me. “Don’t worry about the day you will die. Live now. And when the day comes that I send my angels for you, you’ll not be sad when I open the door and welcome you back to where you came from.”

As we looked out the window, the trees in the yard bowed in the wind. How they willingly surrendered to God’s command! I prayed with all of my heart to be like them to the end of my days.

 

 

 

Pear Picking

Pear Picking

All rivers run into the sea.
~Ecclesiastes 1:7

A group of pickers descended upon the orchard just as I finished my work. I stood by the window and watched them tug the pudgy bottom-heavy fruit from the trees. “I’ll miss the pears,” I said to God. I had grown used to seeing them dangling like ornaments from the trees.

“It’s their time,” God said.

“I know, everything has a season.”

That’s right,” God said. “One season fades into the next, like the rivers into the sea.”

“You’re a poet today, God!” I replied and smiled. I looked out over the rolling hills. The sun, now sinking towards the western horizon, painted the treetops orange. A lone hawk circled soundlessly above while the metronome tap, tap, tap, of a woodpecker kept perfect time. “You’re a poet every day. You must be, to create such grandeur.”

“Not everyone can see it,” God said.”Only those who aren’t frightened by impermanence can see it—those who understand that the river isn’t lost to the sea, but rather the two of them go on together, ecstatic to have finally found one other after so long apart.”

A breeze kicked up and sent leaves tumbling across the yard. “The pears may be gone, but soon, there will pumpkins” God whispered. I nodded and reached out for His hand to hold as the last picker walked out of the orchard.

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