Hope with Feathers

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Hope with Feathers 

by Chris French Kramer

Find rest, O my soul, in God alone; 

my hope comes from him.

Psalm 62:5

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,

And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.

Emily Dickinson

Shortly after our son died in 2004, I called Scott at work and told him I was leaving and didn’t know when I would be back. The car was loaded, gas tank was filled and Otis, our dog, was comfy in the passenger seat. I started east from Colorado Springs to my family cabin in southeastern Missouri. My sanctuary. Filled with grief and armed with books about infant loss, journals to write in and thank you notes to write; my plan was to try to determine my new normal. 

Driving across Kansas in early spring leaves plenty of time to think. And pray. Reflect. And regret. Ever since I was a teen I knew that I would have trouble conceiving. But never in my dreams did I imagine being not-quite-a-mom. From the moment Scott told me in the recovery room that Luke was dead, I knew he was with God. I knew we would be ok. I knew we would be parents one day. But deep in the darkest corners of my heart, I didn’t quite believe what I knew. 

As I turned off the highway onto the gravel county road to the cabin, I could feel myself relaxing, my breathing changing. But the grief was still tightly wrapped around me. Walking into the cabin was walking into home. The smells of Granny lingered everywhere. Memories hid in every corner. 

Books covered the kitchen table while I researched, took notes and answered questions. Naps were taken every afternoon on the swing under two old trees. My sanctuary, the one place I always turn to when life is too much. Thousands of tears were shed. Daily walks on the gravel road echoed the hardness of my heart. And I cried out to God.

I was completely alone … physically, spiritually, emotionally. Then I saw him ... zooming through the woods, a streak of blue. And he perched at the top of the swing momentarily. My breath caught and my soul felt the tiniest bit of hope, a thing with feathers. 

A few months later we were all back at the cabin for Luke’s burial service. By now the numbness was wearing off. Colors were returning to life. I could almost sit through a worship service. Friends and family came from all over for the service. The day of the burial was sunny, hot and humid. After the service and lunch, I wandered back to the cemetery alone. Standing there by Luke’s grave I saw a flash of blue. A coincidence or a reassurance? 

Every visit to the cabin since, I have seen a bluebird. Eventually I realized they were a gift from God. A reminder that Lucas is safe with him and that I am not alone. But I only saw them at the cabin. 

A few years passed and life was crazy. There was always an element of numbness and grief in my heart. Two adoptions, three moves, major career change - all within 5 years. Christmas Day, 2009, I was standing in the kitchen at the cabin when a bluebird flew up to the picture window; and we just stared at each other until he flew away. Something started happening that day. 

The next many months were extremely rough. But when things seemed hopeless, a bluebird would appear. When I needed to know God was there - one would fly in front of my car. When the negative thoughts in my head were overwhelming and I was walking outside, I’d see a bluebird. Any time of year, several different states, God was there, all the time. Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul.

Psalm 62:5 tells us, “Find rest, O my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from him.” My hope is in God and it has been a long time coming. The only way I can say that I have hope is because of him. Bluebirds are just one small, visual way he shows me he cares. Even without those now, I don’t just know God is taking care of us. I believe.