Tuesday, June 7, 2005


My Texan wife longed for the warm sunshine of summer. Sandy grew up in the desert Southwest. Her dad was a geologist; he constantly sought the black gold of Texas -- oil.

Until she moved to Maine, Sandy had only seen snow fall once before, but by the time we finished our first winter in Northern Maine, she had seen more snow than she ever dreamed existed. As the calendar moved toward the summer months, she longed for the sight of green grass, walking barefoot, and warm sunshine drenching her from head to foot.

One afternoon in June, I returned home and found Sandy standing outside. Her right hand shaded her eyes as she intently focused on the field behind the parsonage. In her left hand she held a book. The book contained pictures and descriptions of all the birds in North America.

"Bobolinks! Those birds are Bobolinks! See their coloring and the way they hover in the sky! Listen to their song! Those birds are Bobolinks! This book says that they have one of the longest migratory routes of all the birds. They come up to the northern areas of North American and then all the way to the southern tip of South America every year. This field is one of their nesting spots!"

Her attention was captured by these little creations of God. Sandy was like a child. Those Bobolinks brought her such joy and pleasure. I teased her and told her there was no such bird as a Bobolink. From that time on, everytime we saw a bird we could not identify, I would say, "Maybe it's a Bobolink!"

Every June that followed, Sandy watched for the migration of the Bobolinks. It became a ritual, one of the little serendipities of life we enjoyed in "The County."

We are like the Bobolinks. We have learned to live where we are, but realize that there is a destination we have not yet arrived at. We will continue our migration until the Lord says, "You're home now."

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