Little One, Sing Praise!
Suddenly, off at one side, he heard a trill that rose higher and clearer than all the rest. He moved toward the place whence the song came, that he might see what manner of bird it was that could send farther than all the others its happy notes.
As he came near, he beheld a tiny brown bird with open bill, the feathers on its throat rippling with the fervor of its song. It was the wren, the smallest, the least powerful of birds, that seemed to be most glad and to pour out its melody to the rising sun its delight in life.
As the priest looked, he thought: " Here is a teaching for my people. Everyone can be happy; even the weakest can have his song of thanks." So the priest told his people the story of the wren, and it has been handed down from that day - a day so long ago that no man can remember the time.
- From Our Birds and Their Nestlings
I can see by my last entry that it's been a long while since I put my thoughts out to you. In our house, winter is time of slow goings and small outside commitments. A form of "human" hibernation seems to be what we seasonally practice. But as the calendar ticks away the days and the chill of the winter air seems to have diminished, it is more evident that spring is nearly here.
But the coming of spring is not a time to suddenly burst forth with overdue praise of Our Heavenly Father for finally releasing us from the strains of the blasted cold. Oh no, truly no matter the season whether it be the glorious new life seen in spring or the gentle ease of summer days or the bluster and brimming color of autumn or the chill and the bitter cold of winter, gently SING Him praise. And no matter our season of life as well; easy or hard, tender or callous, fatigued or rested, gently SING Him praise. It doesn't have to be big praise, just a eased praise is sometimes just perfect. In the midst of many a challenging moment, give over to this notion of sweet praise even as we are yelling in frustration at some malfunction of life, say even in a strained and weak voice with gritted teeth, say Thank you, my Lord.
Aren't we are all like little wrens, weak in many regards from our fallen nature, beaten up and down by the strains of living, yes. But aren't we also strong enough to sing our song of thanksgiving to our Heavenly Papa. Of course. He deserves and loves our praise to Him who has loved us so well.
So when the snow has made it's final appearance and you spy a little wren outside your window or hear his call in the quiet of the early morning, join in on his sweet song of praise and thank him, that dear little friend, for the reminder.