A box bounced tumbled down the field in front of our neighbor’s home. Even far away I could see it was an empty Amazon Prime box, the wind kicked away from the neighbor’s garbage. The wind was out of the north and that box rolled and jumped across the corn stubble. Not long ago that box was probably on a graceful jet banking left to the airport, sweeping just west of our house coming from San Francisco, Anchorage, Louisville.
Oma’s head went up. Her ears rolled forward. Her eyes sparkled. I suppose if I were a dog I’d look like that too. We turned up the next road and walked up the hill, the wind tossing my hair and the sun bright in my eyes. The box came to rest. Since I often pick up trash in the ditch (mostly beer bottles), I thought I’d walk over, show Oma the box and carry it back home. She sniffed it. I took a picture. And before I could reach down to pick it up the wind tumbled it across the road and down the field towards The Tree faster than I could chase after it. I watched as it rolled and tumbled until it caught against the fence, an old boundary line. There was joy in the wind.
Those Busch Light bottles, tipped in my pouch, sometimes catch the wind and sound like an oracle at the mouth of the cave, only I figured a neighbor didn’t want his family to know he’d been drinking.
The other day after I turned to walk back toward the house, I saw an albino fledgling nestled in the grass. Willows that had grown up around a waterway shaded her. She looked like an easy pick up but I thought I’d better let her be. Oma did not clue into her. I peered down and took a picture, wondering if she was some kind of portent, a magic bird that I could follow to adventures I’m afraid to take or maybe don’t want to take. (I have sunk my roots on this farm. Even as a child I didn’t like to leave home.) I know people say travel changes the way you see the world, but Bruce and I did our share of traveling when we were young. We often say we were glad we explored the country when we were younger and it was cheaper to get on a train and stay in a hotel. The daily changes to the sky and air and ground are enough for me.
When I looked up the meaning of white birds I found, “In many cultures and belief systems, they are seen as messengers from the heavens, carrying messages from the divine realms to our earthly realm” in 10 Spiritual Meanings of Seeing a White Bird. The tenth meaning comes from Roman mythology. “Caladrius was believed to possess the power to cure the sick. This bird represented purity and nobility, acting as a messenger that could transfer illness and ailments into the sun’s healing rays. Its presence brought solace and served as a symbol of divine intervention.”
My Facebook Friends thought she might be an albino red wing blackbird or robin. I was looking forward to seeing flashes of white as I walked by. But our neighbor reported she’d been hit by car.
Lately, I’ve been challenged by the question: Do you want to be baptized by the Holy Spirit? Do you want to speak in tongues?
Not particularly, no.
In the past I thought no way would I dare say no to God, but now I’m not sure every invitation is for me or from God or this is the time, despite the verse that says now is the time for salvation. I am not sure I’m always hearing God’s voice when nudges come to mind, do this or do that. My former spiritual companion held her breath when I thought God was telling me to return something to a former employer from years ago. It turns out Bruce had tossed it in the fire. And we both sighed in relief.
Years ago I thought for sure JL was going to be my literary agent. I had such deep peace about it. And he was very interested in the manuscript. But it turned out he was like the guy who says I’ll call you and never does, so I shrugged, let it go, and decided not to let my mistaken perception become a crisis in faith.
When I read about the saints who literally flew in the air, and who could be in two places at once, I thought no and no. I have no desire to fly. (Not all the saints wanted this gift.) What I want is to love God and my neighbor. The miracle of footsteps, that quiet sound of my feet on gravel or grass is enough.
And when someone says prophecy is their gift, I feel my inner hands held up, palms out, hold on, hold on, because people with “words from the Lord” gave me images of a rainbow wrapped in chains, and a huge dark blob standing behind me or that I was like the house swept clean with demons waiting to return. I remember a dear friend shaking her head, saying that doesn’t sound right. I remember shrugging off those images and leaning into “In thy light shall we see light” and how the Lord’s mercy extends to the heavens.
A friend has healed people in miraculous ways, just like the saints I read about. I told her how I’d imagined I owned the home where disciples tore up my roof to lower their friend a paralytic for Jesus to heal, how I wished he’d do that for a friend’s desperately ill husband.
When I pray big prayers for complete healing, I hear Brad Jersak’s advice: “Don’t be afraid to pray them even if the answer is not what you asked.” His words encourage taking the risk to pray big prayers. My prayers tend to be on the “please reconcile those two” side of healing It’s both unsettling and good to talk with someone this gifted. It’s faith building to hear stories where people’s cancer or Parkinson’s is wiped away.
We heard all day how we might be hit by violent storms. The clouds were all kinds of slate grey, curled over themselves, or a bright white pleasure dome, blooming above them. The clouds were entertaining. The thunder in the distance. But the radar showed the storms falling north and south of us. As I finished my afternoon chores the wind slammed the big barn door, hard. Morgen looked up from her hay.
I walked outside to the gold light of the sun laying over the western woods, and the wind blowing hard, I lifted my hands, I lifted my heart in joy at the clean wind, the good wind.
The Holy Spirit like wind. Sometimes tossing an empty box across the field, more raucous than I could catch. The Holy Spirit sitting in peace in the grass under wild willows as a white fledgling with red eyes. The Holy spirt racing in the late afternoon, golden sunlight, brushing her hands through trees, bending the leaves.
And then, and then, the Spirit throwing pink on storms that have moved their tornado sirens east.
If you’d like to subscribe to these essays, come join me at Katie’s Ground on Substack.