We all want the answers.
And we want them to be the right ones.
We search for answers to our questions in many forms. Self-help books are at the top of our Amazon Prime list. Podcasts numb our minds, with the hope that we will be inspired with the answer to that question that seems like it’s all-energy-consuming. We pay shrinks, and psychics and life coaches, so we have the answers. We consult friends and mentors to help us arrive at the answers. We look for signs for our answers: in nature, or even in a fortune cookie. This week my fortune cookie read: “If you wish good advice, consult your mother.” I guess I’ll be calling my mom next.
But just as I opened my fortune cookie, my eyes were drawn to look out the glass doors of my kitchen. And there it was: my answer – or so I thought.
It was a bluejay.
As it perched on the tattered railing of my weathered deck, I immediately started to cry. A bluejay always seems to give me the answers. Some of you know my father’s name was Jay, and so when I need answers, sometimes I ask my dad for help. And sometimes, I believe, he gives me answers through the presence of a bluejay. It’s been a very, very long time since I saw one. Maybe six months. But isn’t it amazing how, just seconds after I found myself searching for the answer, there it was. Literally, outside my window.
Or was it?
I found myself saying “no way!” “I can’t believe it!” The power behind the presence of the bluejay was so palpable that it gave me goosebumps. I closed my eyes and let out a sigh. I almost found myself laughing because I couldn’t believe it. And then I did what any good twenty-first century miracle witness would do: I got out my cell phone and took a picture. Because such a sign was almost too good to be true, or rather, too Godly not to notice. You people of faith know what I mean.
I scrambled with my cell to take a picture. It was a little blurry because I took it through the smeared glass of the window – or maybe because I was shaking. But Mr. Bluejay held on tight. He didn’t go anywhere. He stayed with me for a while, reinforcing that this was, in fact, happening.
So there I had it. My answer. Or so I thought.
I put down my cell phone, fell into my chair, and wept into my own arms. The bluejay was not the answer to my question. It’s not like he held a sign that said “do this” or “do that.” It’s not like he tweeted me a message, either.
And that’s when I realized that Mr. Bluejay was a vehicle, a messenger. It was up to me to determine how to interpret the bluejay’s message.
But by that point, I already had.
My answer was felt at the first sight of the bluejay. I had the answer within me the entire time. I just needed a little help getting the answer out in the open, seeing, with my own eyes, via the bluejay, that the answer was the right one.
Thank you, bluejay, for bringing out what I already had inside.
Thank you, dad, for listening.
מָה רַבּוּ מַעֲשֶׂיךָ ה’ — ה (Psalms 104:24). How great are your works, oh God.
Thank you, God, for connecting all of this, all of us, together.