Eagles
I had almost forgotten what our dear Ms. Jean said about eagles flying round these fields, but thankfully, O. doesn’t forget a darn thing.
We were driving into town when the little pip asked about some swooping, circling birds above the crackling corn— wondering if the looming shadows were hawks or eagles.
Their dark plumage and brown heads revealed they were indeed another set of hawks scanning the rows for a field mouse, no doubt.
Filled with childlike faith, O. was not deterred. She remembered.
“Ms. Jean said that when you see eagles, you’ll know.”
Somehow, we’ll just know it.
A year ago, we were promised this assurance. And we have yet to see one.
Not even a hint.
Promises are like that in the Kingdom, too, I’ve found. We are often told that we will know things:
Stay here and pray, you faithful eleven, and keep watch in the heavy darkness of the garden.
Stay in Jerusalem, the disciples are later told, until the Spirit comes.
At times, I am not sure which is the greater miracle:
that God arrives or that we’ll know Him when He comes.
Later that afternoon, I ponder the promises that I am still holding onto. I recall kid dreams and teenager dreams and twenty-three year old dreams as I look out over the newly harvested soy fields. There is nothing left but rows of hard soil and shredded stems and dried soy leaves. With each breath I taste the dust.
Its clear that promises that have long been touched or spoken or believed can feel dusty, too. Years and change and disappointment have almost disintegrated some of them. Life can feel like miles and miles of parched land— land that was flooded just a few months ago now crying out for a sign, for a rain-laden cloud.
Yes, there are seasons when God pours Himself out vividly in prayer and worship and in our breaking bread together. We are drenched in His Love and Presence. I’ve even heard a women tell me she got so lost in the Spirit as a young woman, she could taste God.
Oh, to be flooded in His kindness, His mercy.
And then there are also long droughts, too, when we hope He hasn’t forgotten us. We will certainly faint if He stays quiet, if He does not just whisper our name.
Its faith in the wilderness— this longing, this lament.
Thankfully there have been many a prophet and people who have waited, clinging to a tender hope that God will indeed come.
And when He does comes, they trust that they will know Him.
The bearded Isaiah calls out across the flattened soy:
In the wilderness prepare
the way for the Lord;
make straight in the desert
a highway for our God.
Every valley shall be raised up,
every mountain and hill made low;
the rough ground shall become level,
the rugged places a plain.
And the glory of the Lord will be revealed,
and all people will see it together.
In the wilderness, God will come. And we will all see His glory together.
I stop and walk for a moment, this postpartum body feeling especially wilderness-like these days.
Yet there, in my exhaustion, there is a rustle amidst the sycamore leaves above.
And in a moment a large bird glides out of the branches, wings out stretched.
I can hear each small flap, like a whoosh.
And then I see the white head and the white tail.
An eagle.
Mesmerized, standing there by the road, my eyes gaze and my spirit breaks open.
Here is an eagle, and without ever seeing one before, I know exactly what it is.
And then there is the miracle of the timing of such a revelation, the incredible coincidence of its appearance.
I don’t see majesty like this often, but I know that God is here, too.
A knowing beyond reason and intellect and cognition.
This is like hearing a lover’s voice in the entry way or the smell of coming home.
Knowing of the heart and soul.
Knowing that is tinged with healing and wholeness.
Knowing that feels like a return to something sacred.
And then, in the midst of all this knowing, another.
A second eagle appears from the same branches and swoops and circles along with its mate.
It was as if a single eagle was not enough of a pleasure.
No, there was nothing spared in this divine display of wonder.
This was a releasing of glory so close, so intimate I could see the texture of feathers and the curve of each beak.
And I was the only spectator in all the world.
Life abundant.
I watched the eagles until they flew north, swirling above the dusty fields. And I was reminded of the promises that we wait for— all the small and large hopes for us and our dears ones and the world.
And instead if an answer or timeline, I clutched the vision: two eagles soaring above the plowed, spent earth and tired, weary hearts.
Hope is not far.
He is so near.
And with the sound of wings echoing and the image of the two feathered mates, I trot home in aw of how Isaiah finishes his chapter about the flattened wilderness:
Those who hope in the Lord
will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles;
they will run and not grow weary,
they will walk and not be faint.