Herons

There are three great blue herons living near my house.

For months now, I've seen them daily. They flap their enormous wings and take off into the sky as I walk the dog past the creek, making a lazy circle and landing back in the muddy creek bottom as we pass. They drift across the cornfield to the south of my house, heading to their favorite frog-hunting ground- my pond.

I watch for them.

And for months now, I've carried my camera on every walk we take, keep it handy when I head outside in the evening, leave it sitting in the entryway, waiting.

Because I'm determined to show you these herons.



But try as I might, I can't get a picture of them. They blend in against the sky, or they dip behind a tree, or they're flying too fast for me to capture the moment in my camera.

So they remain my personal herons. Unshared. Un-Facebooked. Un-tweeted, un-blogged. Just for me.



There are times that I wonder if I share too much here.

I wonder if I try too hard to present what I'm learning to the world, and in so doing prevent myself from really drinking deep of each new lesson, of each new gift.

Like maybe I just need to learn something for me, not for you.

Like the herons.

So much is changing now, and I won't be seeing the herons for very much longer. Google tells me that they only "partially migrate," whatever that means- but whether or not they'll be leaving their beloved creek and pond for the winter, I will be leaving for the season.

And in the process of this migration of mine, God is taking my hand and asking me to walk with Him through the open skies of uncertainty. And maybe, just maybe, I have a lot of learning, a lot of processing, to do before I can tell you all about it. Maybe I have to do this thing alone with Him.

Maybe you've got to walk through this thing alone with Him, too.

We've become such fans of "vulnerable," of "transparent," that we forget that sometimes, the blessings are for us, not for our Facebook followers or Instagram friends. We forget that to be truly transparent, we have to let the light shine on us before it can shine through us.

We have to live life before we can share life.



Yesterday, I watched as one of the herons flew over the pond, long dangling legs looking out of place as they prepared for a water landing.

"Look!" I said to my husband. "Did you see him?"

"No, what?"

"The heron," I said. "The heron!"

And in my heart, I whispered, You, the One Who blesses me ways and in places no one may ever see- thank You. 

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