Every year around this time, my family and I welcome a special pair of visitors.  

As winter slips into spring, I begin awaiting the arrival of these honored guests.  I peer out the windows, wondering when I’ll catch my first glimpse of them.  I feel the anticipation of their coming.  And as the trees turn green and the blossoms open, they appear, as though they too are part of the spring symphony.  These guests are a pair of Eastern Phoebes.  

Those of you who live in the eastern half of the United States are probably already quite familiar with phoebes.  They’re energetic songbirds from the flycatcher family whose range impressively stretches from Mexico into Canada.  As far as their looks are concerned, they’re relatively drab—simple grayish-brownish plumage with white stomachs.  

However, what they lack in appearance, they make up for in personality.  They’re bold little birds with boundless energy.  Even when they’re perched, they can’t simply sit still; one of their telltale features is their habit of continuously flicking their tails up and down.  Of course, it’s rather rare to see them perched; they’re almost constantly on the move, darting here and there to capture insects (their primary food) mid-air.  I’ve seen them in a myriad of acrobatic stunts—flying through the tiny gaps in fences at full speed, chasing each other among the trees of wooded areas, making grand swooping dives over lakes.  This time of year, I hear their signature “fee-BEE!” calls constantly, and I’m always on the alert for the little birds, tails flicking restlessly, hovering on fence posts and telephone wires. 

And so it is that March rides in on rough winds and flying clouds and nights that still crackle with cold, but as it yields to April, it leaves in its wake trees white with fluffy flowers, bees muttering in every bloom, winds gentle and fragrant, and a sky scrubbed to the perfection of blue.  And in this springtime splendor I hear it—the shrill whistle of the phoebes, proclaiming their name.  “Fee-BEE!  Fee-BEE!”  And for me, this doesn’t just mean that a particular songbird species has returned from migration.  It means my friends have come home.

Of all the springs I’ve welcomed on my land, I can’t recall a single one when the phoebes have not come. They flit about our shrubbery.  They perch on our balcony railing.  They especially enjoy lighting on the dwarf Japanese maple outside my bedroom window and loudly serenading me (usually about thirty minutes before my alarm clock would have rung!).  Best of all, though, they’re not here for a temporary visit—they’re here to live.  

Many, many years ago, the phoebes apparently decided that the rough-sawn overhang of our front porch was prime real estate.  Since our porch is sheltered by the roof and also by walls on three sides, it’s a very protected area, safe from rains or strong winds.  With no posts or columns, it’s impossible for predators like snakes or cats to climb up the walls and reach the overhang.  And so the phoebes chose this perfect site to build their nest.

It looks very picturesque, actually.  It’s cleverly built, a cup-shaped creation of dried grass and moss, anchored securely to the porch with mud.  It appears so idyllic, in fact, that I wonder if guests sometimes mistake it for an artificial decoration.  Of course, if they do, they realize their error as soon as they step foot onto our porch. The phoebes take great delight in crouching deep within the nest, perfectly motionless and invisible, until an unwary intruder—say, the delivery man or mail lady—steps up to our front door.  Then, they swoop down toward the unfortunate individual, deliberately missing them by mere inches while giving loud calls that must be phoebe war-whoops.  It’s a very startling performance, especially if you’re not expecting it, and it has certainly elicited some dramatic reactions from the people we’ve forgotten to warn!  

We don’t blame the phoebes for their territorialism, though, because they’re simply trying to keep invaders away from the nest.  That nest, indeed, becomes the focal point of their lives during the warm seasons.  Every April, when the phoebes first arrive, their immediate priority is refurbishing the nest—a few extra strands of moss here, a bit more mud there.  Then the female takes up residence.  All summer, we enjoy a front-row seat to the rhythm of life in bird families.  Every spring, I’ve seen the mother lay her perfect eggs.  I’ve marveled when those eggs gave place to scrawny chicks with unsightly pin feathers and gaping yellow beaks.  I’ve cheered on those same chicks when they became fledglings and both parents worked tirelessly up and down our front sidewalk to teach them to fly.  And in the fall, when the nest is finally empty, I keep an eye on it over the winter months, making sure it remains in place—because I know April is coming again.

What I find most heartwarming about the phoebe nest, however, isn’t the nest itself or even the excitement of watching the baby birds.  It’s the knowledge of what the nest represents—the trust the phoebes place in our family.

You see, the phoebes have learned that we aren’t the kind of people who will tear down their nest or demand they move out.  We won’t terrify them by being noisy, we won’t use harsh chemicals on our landscaping, and we won’t annoy them with curiosity about their private affairs.  In short, the phoebes have determined that we symbolize safety.  And as a result, they keep returning to us.

When I look at the nest, I’m reminded that, like the phoebes, we are all searching for safe places.  With every passing day, our world seems to grow more dangerous, more uncertain.  And sometimes, we simply want a place of peace, a location where the roar of fear is forbidden to enter, where we know that we are protected and valued.  That humble little bird nest reminds me of Psalm 91:1-2, 4:  “He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will abide in the shadow of the Almighty.  I will say to the Lord, ‘My refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.’  He will cover you with his pinions, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness is a shield and buckler” (ESV).

My refuge and my fortress.  Just as the phoebes find shelter under the overhang of the porch, we are told to seek our covering in the shadow of God’s protection.  The blessing of the Lord sounds strong and sure in these verses:  refuge, fortress, faithfulness, shield, buckler.  

Under his wings you will find refuge.  I read these words, and I envision pressing close to the heart of God, the way the young phoebes cuddle under their mother’s embrace.  There’s peace in these words—a peace that fills our restless souls.  A peace that holds us close and whispers, There’s no better place to build a nest.

But there’s a problem.

The problem is that for many people, these words, comforting as they are, simply don’t ring true.  These verses remind them not of a safe place to be sheltered, but of a time they expected God’s protection and didn’t receive it.  Or a time when God’s power seemed to only reach so far.  Or worst of all, a time when it appeared that God couldn’t care less what became of them.  If God is my refuge and fortress, they reason, then where was He when my husband cheated on me?  What was He doing when my daughter was in that car crash?  Didn’t He care when I received that diagnosis?  Was He paying attention when my father abused me?  

I understand this feeling, because it’s one I’ve had.  When a mysterious health condition taunted me for over five years and continued to baffle nearly a dozen doctors, I often questioned the wisdom of God’s plan.  When I wallowed in the torment of deep depression and an anxiety that felt as if it had swallowed everything that had once made me valuable, I felt far beyond the reach of grace.  And when I was powerless to protect those I love from disaster and defeat, I was filled with rage at the One Who could have chosen to stand in the gap and didn’t.  

Some would have us deny these feelings, pretend that we never falter in our faith.  Yet to do so makes us less than human.  Following Jesus doesn’t automatically seal our lives in an insulated bubble and outlaw all pain and suffering.  Our spirits are eternally saved, absolutely.  But our bodies still live on a sin-cursed earth.  And suffering, in mysterious ways that often hover beyond our comprehension, is still part of God’s plan to refine and strengthen us.  

Suffering asks hard questions, questions with sharp edges that can slice our faith to pieces.  I know.  I’ve asked them too.  And it’s with great humility that I confess I have no answers for our pain, no secret formula for understanding the why behind every tear.  But what I do believe, a lesson bitterly learned over years of trials, is this:  answers are not necessary.  

Now, I know that when everything in your world is broken, it seems that an answer is the only remedy that will put it all right again.  I know that when white-hot wolves of pain are tearing your soul to shreds, one thought consumes you:  If God won’t fix this, He needs to at least tell me what went wrong.  

But in the long run—in the slanted beams of eternity that spill backwards across our dimension of time and space—answers don’t salve the wounds.  Answers don’t salvage our lives.  And answers certainly don’t save our souls.

I’m reminded again of the phoebes.  I’ve learned much from watching them.  But I think one of their most valuable lessons has been how to press forward in trust.

You see, all has not been easy for these brave bird parents.  Nearly every year, they lose one of their young; when the nestlings begin scrambling about inside the nest, one usually falls out and onto the concrete floor below.  Sometimes, the fledglings don’t learn to fly in time to outwit sneaky predators.  And one devastating year, the entire nest, eggs and all, suddenly, inexplicably, fell.  

From the phoebes’ point of view, our house must be linked with loss and uncertainty.  Yet that doesn’t seem to negate the safety and hope it also holds for them.  In the face of all they’ve undergone here, they keep coming back.  They keep trying again.  When the nest fell, they calmly went to work on a new one, in the same spot, the very next day.  Their bad experiences have never been enough to cancel out their faith.

And this is where I find myself.  The nest has fallen for me many times, yet I keep coming back.  I’m well aware of the knowledge of God that is “too great for me to understand” (Psalm 139:6 NLT).  I won’t pretend to comprehend His workings, and I am certainly not going to presumptuously offer you cut-and-dried explanations for your heartache.  There are so many wonderful theological arguments and exegetical reasonings and philosophical musings on the purpose of pain and God’s role when all goes dark in our lives.  But today, I want to set all of that aside and simply offer this:  we do not have to understand to believe.

Because in spite of all our questions, all our demands to know why, this is reality:  we may never understand.  In this lifetime, much of what God does and how He works will remain a mystery.  Our minds could never encompass all of His plans.  

But we can still believe. 

And what do we believe?  That He is faithful.  That He is love.  That He has our best interest at heart.  Like the phoebes, we recognize that the cruel and tragic things that plague us are not from the heart of God.  Yes, they may be part of His plan for us, and yes, He will use them to refine our character.  But although He recycles pain, He does not prescribe it.  Never, never, does He delight in our sufferings.  

I’m reminded that when Jesus began to preach on His crucifixion and atonement, His only reward was to witness the desertion of the majority of His followers.  And He asked His disciples a heartbreaking question, “Do you want to go away as well?” (John 6:67 ESV)  It was a logical question.  The same message that had been a stumbling block for the intellect of the shallow fans was also mind-boggling for the Twelve.  It wasn’t unthinkable that they would also shrug their shoulders and drift away and find a faith that made a little more sense.  Yet Peter’s answer still rings true today:  “Lord, to whom shall we go?  You have the words of eternal life” (John 6:68 ESV). 

This isn’t a resigned, “Well, we have nothing better.”  Nor is it a grudging, “I guess we’ll stick around.”  Instead, it’s a faith-filled declaration, born from a heart for Jesus that clings to a confidence in His love.  It’s a courageous decision to believe the promises of God even when everything around us seems to hiss that He has lied.  It’s an affirmation that acknowledges that we will wonder, we will question, we will accuse, we will despair, but we will not leave.  And in the end, it’s a choice to simply say, “Lord, I don’t understand, but I know You love me.  And I love You.  And for now, that is enough.  I would rather have Your love than Your logic.”

And that’s why my hope is not shaken.  I’m not talking about blind faith—as if I were required to turn off my intellect to maintain my belief.  I maintain that God invites our emotions, our doubts, our questions, even our distrust.  No, the faith I hold is a faith that understands that I am small.  I know I serve a God Who is infinitely larger than my fears and infinitely greater than my pain.  I’m not God’s judge; I don’t demand that He explain Himself.  Yes, I’ve been hurt.  Yes, I’ve been wounded.  But I know there was a reason—I just may not see it for now, or for ever.  And while I wait on the reason to be made clear, I rest in this truth:  He loves me, and what has hurt me has hurt Him too.  

This year, when the sun turned its face toward my corner of the planet once more, when tiny flowers began peeking up from the tender new grass, when the world looked to spring—the phoebes came back.  I heard them, heard them singing their name and remodeling their nest.  And now I’m avoiding my own front porch, because I know I’m in danger of being dive-bombed by the over-zealous parents.  But that’s ok.  I’m glad they’re back.  I’m glad they know that although they have been hurt, it was not our doing.  I’m glad that although the nest fell, they chose to build again.  I’m glad they still see us as their place of refuge.  Their perfect home.  And watching them under my porch inspires me to press a little closer to Jesus.  After all, to what other love would I possibly cling?  Only He holds my heart.

Did you enjoy this blog? How have the difficult seasons in your life deepened your relationship with God–even when you didn’t understand? ‘d love to hear in the comments!