Hearing the Voice of God on Easter Sunday

“For such a tiny bird, the wren has a surprisingly loud song.”

I heard that line decades ago in a dusty museum, as a small boy standing before a glass case and a badly stuffed wren wired to a dead branch. I pressed the button again and again, listening to the crackly recording of her song — heartbreakingly sweet, impossibly alive.

This Easter morning, a real wren sings in our garden. Her notes fill the house with light. And I’m reminded that no recording, no taxidermy, no text — no matter how well-crafted — can ever capture the miracle of life.

Writers, artists, mystics — we all try. We conjure sunsets, summon memory, evoke the scent of honeysuckle and the ache of longing. But how do we express the inexpressible? The sense of being one with God… or abandoned by Him?

Meister Eckhart said, “We are all meant to be mothers of God… for God is always needing to be born.” Perhaps that’s what drives us to create — not to impress, but to give form to the mystery that whispers through every breath, every bird, every moment of stillness.

And maybe, just maybe, the song of a tiny wren comes closer to expressing the divine than any masterpiece ever could.

🔗 Continue reading the full dispatch on Medium → Read Full Article