In the bright hope of early spring, when the season tiptoed shyly from behind the curtain of winter, I heard the familiar whistling call outside my bedroom window.  

“Fee-BEE!  Fee-BEE!”  

Excitedly I rushed to the window to welcome the special guests who had made their presence known—a pair of Eastern Phoebes.  They’re cheerful little birds whose return is a rhythm as assured as that of the seasons; indeed, I can’t recall a single spring without these flycatcher friends.  And the secret to their ongoing visits lies in a special fact:  their home is quite literally part of ours.  

I don’t recall how many years ago it was they built the nest.  Ten?  Twelve?  Fifteen?  The springs swim together in my memories.  All I know is that no matter how far back I flip through my mental memoir, their cup-shaped roost is secured snugly to the rough-sawn cedar wall of our sheltered front porch, just as it is today.  Even in the winter, its aching emptiness reminds us that spring will smile again.  And as the days warm and the flowers unfold, the phoebes return in a happy homecoming, ready to once more fill the nest with the miracle of new life.  

Always thrilled to have a window to these birds’ hidden lives, I watched with excitement this year as the phoebes flitted back and forth, their joyous song spiraling into the spring sky as they repaired the winter wear on their home.  When the remodeling was complete and the female became a regular fixture on the nest, I knew the eggs had been laid.  Every few days—timing my visits so as to not disturb the birds—I’d stealthily climb a stepladder to peer into the tidy home.  I marveled at the smooth serenity of five speckled eggs, tucked away like treasures in a chest.  And I rejoiced on the magical day when those eggs transformed into five tiny nestlings with embryonic wings and beaks hinging hungry and the barest sprinkling of white pinfeathers—inglorious and awkward, perhaps, but nonetheless the phoebes of the future. 

But only a few days later, the story veered into a dramatic turn.

Not seeing the parents anywhere near the nest, I once more scrambled up my stepladder—and felt the fingers of fear grip my heart.  The nest that had been so lovingly fashioned now looked as if it had undergone an invasion—an entire side was crushed, and the remainder sagged from the wall as though it might tumble at any time.  Fighting the foreboding, I peered inside and saw my worst fears confirmed.  The nest that had housed a happy phoebe family only a couple of days earlier was now completely empty.  No trace of the young birds remained.  

I descended the stepladder before I gave way to my tears.  My mind flicked through all the dangers that can assail nestlings:  storms, winds, food shortage, falls from the nest, predator attacks, parental neglect.  The circumstances didn’t match any of these possibilities, and the mystery remained unsolved.  Regardless of the cause, the result was the sorrowful same:  the baby birds were gone, and although I waited hopefully, the phoebe pair did not return for a second attempt.  Instead, the nest continued to sag sadly from the wall, its forlorn appearance a reminder that the story had screeched to a stop, the hope colliding with catastrophe. 

But despite all, there was more to come. 

A few weeks after this incident, I was surprised one early summer evening to see a pair of Barn Swallows fluttering through my front yard.  I’d always loved these birds, with their elegantly tapered wings and feathers the dusky color of the evening sky, but I’d never before seen them on our property.  I dismissed their visit as a random blessing, but a few days later, they returned—this time, carrying small twigs and bits of grass in their beaks.  Hardly daring to hope, I watched them carefully until I was sure—they were rebuilding the phoebe nest!  

Undeterred by the damage, they went to work resolutely.  Following the tradition of barn swallows, they shaped small marbles of mud with their beaks, using these to reattach the nest to the wall and shore up the sides. They added some extra moss to its exterior and selected dried grasses to weave into the rim.  As a crowning touch, they used their own feathers to line the nest with soft comfort.  

When I saw both swallows huddled together within the safe embrace of the nest the night of a terrible thunderstorm, it felt like watching redemption in action.  The nest that had been empty and forsaken was now vibrant with the promise of new life.  Indeed, when I gazed at the nest, I could see the two layers—the original foundation of the phoebes and the mud-work of the barn swallows—as if the tale of its resurrection was written directly into its construction.  Every time I saw the swallows sweeping to and fro, I basked in the wonder of the nest’s second act, and I thought of something else—how we too can experience the blessing of “second acts” in our lives.  

“I have become convinced,” states author Melody Carlson, “that God thoroughly enjoys fixing and saving things that are broken.”  How true these words are!  In fact, one of the most beautiful aspects of God’s character is His heart for second acts.  He brings a sparkling sunrise every morning.  He restores the verdure of the growing season after the deadness of winter.  And best of all, He takes us fallen, feeble humans, gently unravels the tangled knots of our pain, and creates stunning second acts for our often-disastrous stories.

If you don’t believe me, just trace the thread throughout Scripture.  David started as a teenage shepherd overlooked by even his own family—and finished as the king of Israel.  Moses was a fugitive and exile in Midian—then became a prophet and lawgiver legendary even today.  Jacob was a double-dealing con man with a greedy eye and a grabbing hand—but he was transformed by God into Israel, the prince of God and the patriarch of the greatest nation.  

And if any Biblical hero knew the value of a second act, it was Paul.  He related his testimony in 1 Timothy:  “I thank him who has given me strength, Christ Jesus our Lord, because he judged me faithful, appointing me to his service, though formerly I was a blasphemer, persecutor, and insolent opponent. But I received mercy because I had acted ignorantly in unbelief, and the grace of our Lord overflowed for me with the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus” (1:12-14 ESV).  Paul, the self-described chief of sinners (v. 15), had once wielded his own mistaken convictions as a weapon and overseen the persecution of Christians throughout the Roman Empire.  But when he encountered the glory of God on the road to Damascus, his horrifying first act gave way to his sterling second act—that of one of the greatest missionaries, theologians, and preachers Christianity has ever known.  

But there’s a problem. 

The problem is that we hear these Bible stories, and we nod our heads.  Yes, we know God gives second acts.  Yes, we know God can spin every story for good.  The truth is firmly embedded in our minds.  But when we look beyond the sanctity of Scripture into the messiness of our own lives, it’s terribly difficult for this to soak into our souls. 

Maybe you feel this way, as I have—staring at the rubble of your story, unable to resist the conviction that it simply can’t be redeemed.  Maybe you think your tale is just too dark, too shrouded by the shadows.  Maybe your current circumstances seem too insurmountable, as if all the impossibilities rise like cliffs around you.  Or perhaps you feel that too much time has carried you far downstream, that any moment of redemption has surely melted away.  

Friend, when the devil douses you with discouragement, don’t believe the lies.  With God, no story—not even one—is past redemption.  I watched our God write a brand-new story for the tragedy of the bird nest.  I’ve seen Him take suffering in my life and transform it.  And I know that this same God is just waiting for you to partner with Him—to put your hands in His and allow Him to write a glorious second act for your life as well.  Best of all, I’m not talking about someday, in a distant and hazy future, but right now.  Here, today, you can take the first tentative steps into a new story.  

The starting point for a redemptive second act requires us, counterintuitively, to look behind us—at our first act.  Where did it go astray?  And did we play a role?  Sometimes this will require us to make amends—to place the phone call, or offer the apology, or confess the sin.  At other times, it will force us to face the darkest corners of our souls—the fear that fettered us, the insecurity that held us back, the injustice that stole our voice.  This calls for unflinching honesty and unwavering courage, but it’s a liberating leap—the first step through the gate to a new tomorrow.    

However, although we have to examine the first act to know where we went wrong, we can’t stay there.  I’m reminded of Philippians 3:  “Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus” (v. 13b-14).  You see, we have a tendency to hang onto the hurt, like a medal of misery we’ll wear forever.  But gripping our first act white-knuckled is one of the most disastrous choices we can make—and the one action guaranteed to impound us in the past.  Don’t endlessly circle the ashes of what lies behind.  Instead, release it to God—and follow His footsteps forward. 

And walking forward with God brings us to the most important component of this process—we have to trust Him to be the Author of our second act.  Doing things differently requires the surrender of self, the cession of control.  If we try to reach for the reins, we’ll only repeat the patterns from the past, and the second act will be derailed before it even begins.  Remember, a second act is a gift from God, and as the Giver, He holds the story in His loving hands.  As Paul reminded his readers, “[F]or it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for his good pleasure” (Philippians 2:13 ESV).  

We live in a world of scarred stories—broken relationships, floundering faith, lost time and missed opportunities and disastrous choices.  And that’s why second acts are such priceless treasures.  They hold all the hope of Heaven, gleaming with the glory of grace.  Every time I saw the barn swallows swooping around the new-life nest, I was reminded that I serve a God Who gives these second acts with open hands.  And so, remember this:  if today you feel as empty and forsaken as the bird nest once was—if you feel your story has been stolen—then please do not be defeated.  Place every corner of control in the hands of the Lord, and watch Him write a beautiful second act for you.

Did you enjoy this post? What are some ways God has written a second act in your life? Let me know in the comments! Also, if you’d like to listen to the audio version of this post, you can find that below!