Meet the Author's Author

Meet the Author's Author
Live for Jesus! That's what matters! That you see the light in me and come along! :)

Thursday, April 12, 2012


I received a letter this morning from my sister Juliet. In it, she told me a story. Now it is my turn to tell a story.

This is for you, Juliet.

Once upon a time.

No, that is the beginning of a fairytale.

Once there was a small bird. He was brave, bold, reckless and fearless. Everywhere he went, he brought a song, a note of joy into someone's heart.

This bird had an unusual tale. He was raised up by his mama and papa birds in their safe nest, with all his other siblings. He was taught to do all the things that he should do. How to sing beautiful praises to their Creator, how to fly, how to eat nourishing food, and many other birdish things.

But in his heart, he rebelled against doing all the normal healthy things that a bird should do. He wanted to be different, and he felt his heart calling him away. But at the same time, he knew that it was bad for him to want to be other than what he was made to be.

So one night, he flapped his small wings and flew away...far, far away...until he found a canyon where two vultures were sitting.
Look at their shiny black feathers! Their great powerful wings...the food stock in the canyon below was proof that they never went hungry.
How often had he admired them, soaring so great afar!

"Ha! Look who's here!" cackled one. "We'll have him for dinner!"

The bird ruffled his feathers, a sudden wisp of uncertainty dancing over him.

"No! Don't...I want to join you."

"Think twice!" hissed the second. "If we take him under our wing and pamper him a little, it will cause great sorrow to the Creator, his mama and papa birds, and - we still get to eat him in the end!"

So they were kind to the little bird. They gave him delicate morsels at first from their larder, which changed into the out-and-out ravenous devouring of any kind of disgusting, rotten meat.

But he still went home every night, that little bird. He would clean his beak and have a small bath in the pond by home, come home and pour out his heart in song to the Creator, dutifully help his siblings, eat bird seeds and small, annoying bugs. But his heart was not in it.

Until one day the vultures saw he was fat enough. And he looked up from his ravenous devouring of the rotten meat to find them hovering over him, holding a metal cage in their talons.

"What...? No, wait!" he cried.

They only laughed raucously as they dropped it over him and flew away to their old dead tree, to wait for him to die amongst the rotten carcasses he had loved too well.

It didn't take long for his mama and papa bird to find him.
They had guessed for some time that all was not well, but now it was all revealed. They could do nothing, but weep and sit on top of his cage all day and all night, taking turns, singing their hearts out in the hope that Creator God would hear and set their little bird free.

But He didn't.

Not until the little bird looked about him and finally saw what a mess he was in. And remembered the good food and the secure place he had been. As he moved his tiny claws amongst the stinking, sodden meat and noticed he was sinking, he looked up and saw his parents. And looked past them.
He knew he couldn't get out.
He'd tried for days.

He opened his small beak and he trilled out a song to Creator God. It was a cry. A pleading for forgiveness. A begging for help. A plea that God would make him into the bird he was meant to be.

Quietly, Creator God reached down and removed the cage. With a tender Hand, He picked up the little bird and brought him with his parents back to their nest.

But he had lived so long in the rotten meat that its taint was still on him. The smell of it hung around him, wash as he might, and tiny particles clung to him.

He was free, he was home, he was being made into the bird he was meant to be. But his past still hung onto him. It made him sad. But he battled on.

He did many good things. He lightened many hearts with his songs, cheered the broken, helped heal the sick, pointing them all the time to Creator God. Bit by bit, the smell began to fade, the particles to drop off. The memories were still there, still taunting him, but he gave them to the Creator, and used their unique pain to tint his songs with many strands and tones of variety which were not found in the songs of the normal birds.

But someone else didn't forget either.

The vultures were angry that they had wasted so much time and meat on one little bird that they never got to devour. But they bided their time patiently and waited.

And one day it happened.

He came back into their vicinity. He was flying over part of the land to meet some birds that he had cheered and blessed with his songs frequently, and knew there was still a danger from the vultures. He figured they were pretty old by now and but he trusted the Creator with them and flew.

And they dropped the cage over him as he flew, crashing him to the ground. He struggled upright, out of the ground, and climbed onto the bars. He was on the ground, not on the carrion. On dry, dusty, sandy ground.

He was alone.

He was locked down.

And then it happened.

The presence of Creator God came swirling down, wrapping around him, holding him tight. For the first few lonely days, he was lost, absorbed in the joy of the comfort of the Creator near and around and in him.

Then the second came.

The beautiful haunting melodies of all the other birds he had reached and helped. They came, floating out of the distant forests surrounding the canyon. Notes that he had taught them - his own music from his pain came back, echoing, multiplied, surrounding him to comfort him in the only way they could.

The vultures made up lies about him. Said that he had gone and killed the carcasses for them to eat and stole the best parts for himself.
They reported him to Aquila, the king of their world, and he had not much time to spare on the case.

So he ordered the little bird to be guarded where he was. Few birds could manage the long and arduous flight into the wilderness to see him, for the short time limit that was allowed. His mama and papa birds lived too far away to come to him now, since he was on the far side of the canyon.
And the little bird was left, apart from his guards, on his own.

But even there, he learned new notes. He learned new songs. And he felt the Creator's grip tighten, holding him firmly, gently, cleaning away the dirt even in the midst of it.
Sand in the desert would make a pearl in a bird.

It was the Creator's way of changing him, ready for what was coming.

Soon it was the date when Aquila turned his attention to what he considered to be one small, troublesome bird. But he didn't know how troublesome that Bird was going to be. Because he couldn't see the gentle hands of the Creator folding ever closer around His special bird.

The birds in the forests for miles around joined together to sing that one song in chorus. Pleading, begging, crying out to the Creator to shape Aquila's decision, to soften his heart.

But that one Birdie knew, that no matter the decision, whether to set him free to go back to the forests or to keep him chained down in the desert for some years to come, that it was God's doing. And he was calm, peaceful - and still singing.

And Satan, I don't care who you think you're messing with, but God has our Jay-bird. Nothing you can do will stop what is coming. Because God is on his side.
My bird has lost his wings. But he hasn't lost his song.

Sing back to him. Sing to the Creator. Sing for Jay.

In Christ,
~Mademoiselle Sian