Mail Boxes and Birds' Nests

I went for a walk with Jude this morning. It was a great walk in the first sunlight of the day. The air was already warm but the trees swayed with a wondrous gentle breeze. We walked up and down hills, across bridges and through neighborhoods. I pushed my little one in our used jogging stroller and enjoyed pointing out butterflies, dandelions, birds and scampering squirrels.

On the last leg of our walk, just as we were about to tread up the final hill that curves around to our own driveway, I noticed a mailbox. It caught my attention because it was hanging open. I had every intention of closing it shut for the owner, but the closer I got the more apparent it became that this was no one's mailbox at all. The metal was rusted and bit crushed from the wear and tear of the harsh seasons it had undoubtedly endured. This mailbox was an unkempt antique and was of no use to anyone. It certainly wasn't collecting any mail, and had long been forgotten.

I walked up to it and was shaken by a flutter inside; then a burst of feathers as a bird emerged with a violent flapping of wings to push itself out of its hiding place. I gained my composure and then peeked in - there, nestled in the back recesses of this old decrepit tin box was a newly minted nest, filled with the beginnings of new life. Tiny eggs were encircled by brush and sticks to keep them warm.

This old, useless mailbox was someone's home and the open lid was just the passage needed for new life to begin.

I wonder if you've closed the lid on an area of your life that could be the very resting place from which new life will spring. I've often tried to close of parts of my life, parts of my story, that seem rusty, useless and a bit dented. I didn't want anyone to get inside that part of my history. And yet, I'm beginning to discover that if I'll open the lid, or my heart, and let people inside, my broken places can give them a surge of encouragement and hope that may just foster something fantastic in their life.

So, open the lid today my friend. . . new life depends upon it.

Priscilla