The Dawn of the Nightingale

I feel like I’ve been given this small little chickling to care for and feed, and I’ve cupped it for so long in my hands that I can’t seem to let go. Sometimes in life the things we love most are the very things we are crushing in our grasp. A nightingale was made to fly. That’s how it glorifies God.  But by holding on to it, by wrestling to hold it close to me, I squelch its worship. I know the bird is wounded. And yet I cannot get in the way of its flight. So, I let go.

And by a miracle, I fly, too.