Sunday, I travel 6 miles to Headwaters Chapel for the first of two church services. I park along the road, in front of the Varner family farm. Sometimes the cows are lined up along the fence in hopeful greeting; what they think I bring, I cannot say, but whatever they’re hoping for, I disappoint, turning away from them and towards the chapel.
Last Sunday was a beautiful, cold, crisp, clear winter day. The cows had long since given up hope on me, so there was no greeting, or so I thought.
As I turned from the car door to swing my robe on at the road’s edge, I felt more than heard or saw movement.
And then I heard it . . . the sound of hundreds of birds’ wings beating . . .
The flock lifted up on waves . . . staying low, it was almost as if they ran rather than flew across the road to the field further away from this mid-morning intruder.
A smaller group held back, waiting until all the others had landed on the other side before lifting up in identical fashion. . . the staggered crossing created a long ten-count of beating wings . . . the only sound in that moment in the whole of the valley . . .
The wing sound was my only real proof that they had been there.
I was sorry I had disturbed them even as I longed to hear their wing song again.
If they hadn’t moved, I would have never seen them.
Ears are for hearing and eyes for seeing, but hearts that soar and feet that dance and wings that fly are for noticing.