This morning I stepped outside and leaned against the white railing on my back landing. The air was cool and a little damp, just on the edge of being cold. I could hear Route 15 in the distance—steady traffic, the hum of engines, and the faint echo of it all carried through the sound barriers. There was also a low background buzz that blended into the morning in a way you almost stop noticing.
But what I noticed first was a single blackbird.
It was sitting at the very top of a bare winter tree, right out in the open. No cover, no movement—just perched there, still and present. I stood there longer than I meant to, just watching it.
The tree itself still looked like winter. The branches were bare, worn in shades of brown and gray. There were small hints of green starting to show in the distance, signs that spring is on its way, but the branches haven’t quite caught up yet. It’s that in-between season where things are beginning to change, but not fully there yet.
Around the blackbird, other birds were active. Some were flying in pairs, like the cardinals I noticed nearby. Others moved together, part of the rhythm of the morning. But this one bird stayed alone, high up on that branch, not really bothered by any of it.
To me, it stood out as a kind of quiet courage.
I’ve recently come through a season of loss, and in many ways my grief feels similar to that morning air—fresh in its awareness, something I’m still learning to carry each day. It’s not always visible to others, but it’s present for me in the background as I move through life.
Watching that bird made me realize something. It didn’t seem concerned with being part of everything happening around it. It wasn’t hidden, and it wasn’t striving. It simply stayed where it was—present, still, and steady.
That moment reminded me that seasons don’t change all at once. Winter slowly gives way to spring. Growth begins quietly before it’s fully visible. And even in the middle of transition, life keeps moving forward.
Scripture says, “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). That really resonated with me this morning.
And, “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1:5).
Sometimes encouragement doesn’t come in big or obvious ways. Sometimes it comes in a quiet moment—just noticing something simple—reminding you that even in a season that feels unfinished, light is still coming, and life is still unfolding.
Even in grief, there is still movement forward. Even in stillness, there is purpose. And even in what feels bare, there is still something meaningful taking place.
Reflection:
What season are you in right now—and where might you notice quiet signs of light still present, even if they’re small?
Brown Study and Wool-Gathering 