Finding Grace in Unexpected Places
Nature has always had the power to soften me—to break down the walls I build around my heart. It strips me bare and carries me into a quiet journey of the soul.
A few weekends ago, I was walking through Coconut Grove with my sister when I noticed a small bird lying by a window. Her wing was clearly broken, and in that instant, my heart cracked wide open. I couldn’t just leave her there to her luck.
I scooped her up and carried her to the nearest vet, only to be turned away without so much as a glance. So I brought her home instead. I built a little shelter for her to rest in, hoping it would give me time to figure out what to do next. My dogs welcomed her with gentle curiosity—as if they instinctively knew she was hurt.
That first night, she slept for hours. I wasn’t sure she would survive until morning. But as the sun broke into the room, the softest sound lifted the silence: “cheep, cheep.”
My heart rose with joy.
When I came to see her, she wasn’t afraid anymore. Instead, she crawled into my hands, climbed up my arm, and tucked herself into the curve of my neck, right between my ear and shoulder.
And in that stillness, I heard God whisper, “Thank you.” Tears ran down my face.
Over the next few days, I fed her bits of grapes and drops of water from my fingertips. She wandered through my home, settling among my plants as if she belonged there. I slowed down, surrendered to her rhythm, and lay on the floor just to be present with her.
A thin thread of grace. A manifestation of God.
So much love—even wrapped in her pain—if only we allow ourselves to see it, I thought.
But soon it became clear her condition wasn’t improving. I couldn’t keep her with me on hope alone. With a heavy heart, I drove her to the sanctuary. Grief. Transformation. Death. Each word pressed down on me, because I knew what this drive meant.
What is death, really? Is it an ending—or the beginning of something new?
Does my heart ache because dreams dissolve with life—or because of the fear of the unknown?
At the sanctuary, they confirmed what I had already suspected: her injuries were too severe. It was time for her to sleep. To go back home.
And yet, beyond the sadness, I felt a strange sense of relief. I had shown up. I did the best I could with the tools I had. And I knew her last days were filled with care, gentleness, and love. To me, that is what life is all about.
So I’ll leave us with this food for thought:
Would you stop for a bird in the middle of the road?
Would you pause your busy schedule to care for someone else—even a stranger?
How can you show up better for others today?
Because love is everywhere, waiting to break down the walls around our hearts and remind us why we’re alive.
Thank you for reading, for sharing your time with me.
I love you.
Till the next story,
Anye