The Cardinal on the Garden Bench

Just a quick glimpse into my quiet.

Most mornings, before the chaos, before the clatter of dishes and the sound of tiny feet (and attitude-heavy tween sighs), I sneak outside to my front porch.

And there he is.
The same red cardinal, perched like clockwork on our old garden bench.

He just sits there at first, chest proud, feathers brilliant against the morning light.
Then he starts to sing — loud, clear, joyful.

I talk to him sometimes — tell him how handsome he is, how beautiful his song sounds. And no, I’m not losing it.

I just really, really love how God designed the quiet things to speak so loudly to our hearts.

That bird doesn’t rush. Doesn’t worry. Doesn’t multitask.
He just shows up and sings like the world is brand new.

And every time, I feel God gently reminding me:
"I’m right here too."

In the breeze.
In the stillness.
In the simple wonder of something small and sacred.

Nature doesn’t try to be holy. It just is.
And some mornings, in that quiet porch moment between sunrise and responsibility, I remember I can be too.

Even if I’m tired. Even if I’m overwhelmed. Even if I’m about to walk inside and loudly wake up my tween daughter to get out of bed and feed our zoo of animals. (Just kidding, we just have two.)

There is worship in the wild.
There is glory in the ordinary.
There is God in the garden bench.