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Dear Covenant Friends,
I have been in a writing funk. An absence of flow. A lack of habit. A failure of discipline. Not for sermons, with their unyielding weekly due dates, but for journaling, for my dissertation, for the Light in the Window articles I’ve enjoyed writing for the last four years.
It’s not a question of content. During a three-mile morning walk or a 50-minute swim, I’ve written whole chapters in my head. Every day brings conversations and observations that could be spun into story and reflection. God never stops speaking.
Last Sunday we worshipped under the trees and heard the parable of the Sower. We reflected on the wild and relentless grace God flings into this world like tiny seeds carried on the wind. Some of those seeds take root in our lives. Some are "snatched away" by the birds, only to be carried elsewhere and replanted by these farmers of the air.
I suppose I could blame the birds for making off like bandits with the seeds I should have been nurturing. In my life, those pesky birds stand for time that slips away, problems that draw my attention, administrative tasks that someone else could do, and stress. It’s like watching the bird feeder outside my kitchen window slowly empty—or suddenly dump its entire load when a chunky squirrel manages to find purchase.
But I can’t blame the birds. Jesus told us to "consider the birds," and today that feels less like a suggestion than a command.
Is it coincidence that in the days since I preached, I’ve had the distinct feeling I’m being visited—or perhaps targeted—by these creatures? The sparrow that landed on the screen outside my office window and peered in. The turkey standing in the road on my morning walk, patiently waiting for his portrait. The Cooper’s hawk circling overhead. The pair of yellow finches that landed in the crabapple tree. The cardinal couple perched on the fence, watching me as intently as I watched them. The elusive hummingbird whose wings I hear churning just before it disappears from sight.
In Anne Lamott’s classic writing guide, Bird by Bird, she recalls her ten-year-old brother, overwhelmed by a massive school report on birds due the next day, sitting at the kitchen table in tears. Their father put an arm around his shoulder and simply said, “Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.”
Lamott uses that story as her central metaphor for both writing and life. Large, intimidating challenges become manageable when we stop trying to finish everything at once and simply take the next faithful step. Instead of worrying about an entire dissertation, a massive project, an impossible problem, or even the inbreaking of God’s kingdom, you write one paragraph. One sentence. One bird.
Or perhaps you offer one prayer. One sentence. One word.
Help.
Wow.
Thanks.
So, for what it’s worth, here I am again. Writing bird by bird. Living day by day. Trusting that God is still sowing seeds with wild abandon—and inviting you to notice where they are taking root in your own life.
Peace,
Pastor Jessie
pastor@covenantweb.org
July 16, 2026
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