The Bible says that if we come to God with faith He will give us the desires of our heart. I believe that. However, I’m also fairly sure that God is going to make me wait to realize one of the fondest desires of my heart. Maybe it’s only because I don’t have enough faith to see it happening in this life, but I think I’ll probably have to be patient until I get to heaven. That’s because my desire is this: I want to fly. Not inside a big metal tube with staff to serve me overpriced snacks, but with my own, tireless wings. The other day, I watched an eagle soaring, playing with the wind currents above Silver Lake, and I once again thought how marvelous it would be to ride the air, soaring effortlessly above the world. That would, in fact, be amazing. I thought about that eagle all day, gliding in my imagination in a silent, noble dance above the lake and mountains that I love. I imagined how it would be to feel the air support my wings and what I could think as I enjoyed that different perspective. At the end of the day my thoughts were still in the clouds and I decided that maybe, after a while, flying eagle-like would become lonely and maybe even a little boring. Solitude and beauty are rich gifts, that’s true, but my heart seems to have some trouble absorbing too much beauty and too much solitude at a time.
No, flying like an eagle is not my heart’s desire. What I really want is to play with the hummingbirds. I’d love to hear the whir of my own wings as I dart in and out of the trees, smelling and tasting the flowers. I’m sure the yellow daisies are tangy, the bright red Indian paintbrushes must be sweet, and the blueish bells in the meadow? Maybe they have a savory richness that would make them my favorite. If I could fly, I think I’d be so excited I’d rarely sit still. Instead, I’d play tag with that little red-throated guy who is zooming around the hummingbird feeder next to my camper. (I put it up after we set up camp in the Sierra Madre Mountains this week, and within minutes the party began.) I sit and watch enviously as the four or five little creatures, so fairy-like and cheery, loop and dart, skyrocketing around limbs and branches in a game of chase that my eyes can’t quite follow. They argue and cheer each other as they race to see who can defend the feeder most strenuously. Sometimes, to my human thinking, it looks like the reddish brown one is being mean, not allowing the others to spend much time drinking the sweetness from the feeder, but as I pretend that I’m one of them, I become sure that his twittering voice holds the deepest and most pure of the laughter among them. They play hard and with abandon. There’s no trace of remorse for the undone laundry or hint of worry at an unpaid bill. Nope. There is only elation and delight in the game and calm when one of them does stop for a moment’s rest on a shimmering aspen limb or to drink from the bright red feeder. I sit, ground-bound in this body, wistful for wings that would take me on loops around the pines and allow me to join the fray. I consider how lucky my little hummingbird pals are as they cavort, understanding one thing only – the joy of Creation around them.
Then it occurs to me. I also understand the joy of creation. And maybe, I have a bit wider view of it than my tiny joyful companions. I’ve snorkeled and seen what delights populate the coral reefs, I’ve walked in the desert and watched sunrises and shooting stars that maybe my fast, feathered friends haven’t had a chance to notice. They understand the depth and breadth of their corner of creation, I can see a little larger view. God created them, but He didn’t die for them. He made them delightful, but He doesn’t delight in them as deeply as He does in me. They have joy in their wings and games, while I have the joy of knowing how much the Creator sacrificed in order to provide me the hope that someday, when I get Home, I can have wings.
Do you have any idea how hard it is to take a picture of a hummingbird?
