Drenched, but not drowned out

Two mornings ago, while rain poured down and thunder rumbled discontentedly far away, I awakened to hear a songbird joyously trilling away in our backyard as if the sun were blazing. It sang alone.

Yesterday morning, while rain trickled down and skies were grey and pouty, the bird sang solo again.

This morning it was the same, though the clouds were reluctantly giving way to shafts of sun. This morning, a few other birds joined in.

I’m no Maya Angelou. I don’t know why the caged bird sings. Or why the soaking wet songbird persists. I don’t know how Paul and Silas could sing in prison at midnight. How Habakkuk could rejoice in Jehovah during famine.

I wake up grousing. I’m a grouser. I’m a Job. I’m more like Ecclesiastes: Woe is me and everyone else, too.

I wake up thinking, “Why is that dumb bird singing?”

This morning I thought I heard it chirping its answer:

“Why not? Why not? Why not?”


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