Wednesday, May 10, 2017


I saw a pigeon in a train station yesterday.  He had two functioning legs, but only one of those legs had a foot.  He didn't seem bothered by this, actually.  He still strutted his stuff, albeit with a bit of a limp.

I was captivated.  His actions were oddly inspiring to me, making me think of how often I feel handicapped in some regard (many regards) - a gimp with a limp.  But this pigeon was reminding me that we each have a choice in how we see these figurative injuries - we can let them dictate our sense of self, or we can envelope them in our own strut, embrace them as our signature walk.

He kept up his limping strut, pecking at invisible scraps of food, dodging pedestrians who weren't looking at him.  I wanted to shout out to everyone to pay attention.  Here was this small miracle, a feathered sermon, and they were missing it.  This remind me of how often I am likely missing messages from God, walking right under my nose.  This reminded me that I need to look, to see, and to pay attention.

While I was thinking all this, the pigeon suddenly remembered he could fly.  The sound of his flight, just over my head, was a plumage song - a wordless whisper of Overcoming.  It was a delicate, tentative shout of strength - a kiss on my ear drums.  The soft sound was somehow louder than the hum of frustrated waiting emanating from the crowd in the station.  It was an essay how we can be both broken and whole, both weak and strong, and how neither is right, and neither is wrong.

The music of his limping strut, and elegant flight, reverberated gumption into my ever-anxious heart.

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