God speaks to me through birds.

What I mean is that I’m a bird girl. I love watching birds and feeding birds and stalking birds, the latter a recently acquired hobby ever since we found a bald eagle’s nest near our house.

When life is hard (which it mostly is) and I’m desperate for hope or a promise or a wee bit of an endorphin boost that isn’t something salted and carameled, it’s often the sight of a favorite bird flying overhead or perched nearby that lifts me up and out of my pettish funk.

Like I said, God speaks to me through birds.

More specifically, the less than common birds tend to give my spirit the greatest jump-start, and most specifically - and most impactfully, my favorite backyard bird - the red-bellied woodpecker - is as good to my heart as Charlie Bucket peeling back the foil wrapper and discovering the scalloped-edged of a winning golden ticket.

Countless times, when I’m stuck in a season of doubt or confusion (a place in which I am very skilled at getting stuck), I’ve looked beyond my kitchen window and discovered a red-bellied woodpecker pecking away at the maple tree a few feet from the house, and almost immediately, I feel seen, assured, at peace.

Its bright red cap and black-and-white striped wings give off a cool retro vibe, like a mid-century art piece ornamenting the tree. The faint reddish-orange patch along its belly gives the red-bellied woodpecker its name, and I like to challenge myself to spot its somewhat hidden red patch as the bird dances up and down the tree. All of this - the retro vibe, the hard-to-spot patch, the darling red cap - to me, is pure delight, a Mary Poppins-style joy that is a spoonful of sugar to my dreary soul.

The red-bellied woodpecker, with its red-capped head, is not to be confused with the red-headed woodpecker, a much more shy and elusive bird, which happens to be my husband’s favorite backyard bird. I already declared the red-bellied to be my favorite bird before I ever saw a red-headed woodpecker live and in color, and I’m guessing if I saw the red-headed before I made my favorite bird declaration, I might have made a different declaration. With an entirely red head and neck, the red-headed woodpecker is striking, its colors bold. Its deep red top-half glistens with a velvet sheen, and when in flight, the bird’s crisp and bright black-and-white wings are a show-stopping checkerboard in the sky.

In the ten years we have lived in our home and been feeding birds from feeders, I have never seen a red-headed woodpecker up close (or at all), and only recently have I spotted one in the woods that line our property fifty yards from my kitchen window.

My sister was standing in my kitchen when I spotted the red-headed woodpecker in the woods for the first (and only) time, and I shot from my chair like a just-released pull-back toy. I bolted for the window, nature’s force catapulting me toward the brilliant bird. I was mid-conversation when I saw it, and with half a sentence still floating in the air, I flew across the kitchen, shouting maniacally, “IT’S A RED-HEADED WOODPECKER.” My sister, not a bird girl, stood confused and concerned.

My sister’s more of a dog girl. You should see her around a puppy, or even worse, a rescue. Talk about a maniac.

The red-bellied woodpecker, on the other hand, is a less elusive backyard visitor, enjoying the cracks and crevices down the trunk of the dying maple out back and occasionally taking advantage of the seed and suet at the nearby feeder. Not as frequent as many birds, the red-bellied makes a few appearances every season before spending most of its time deep within the backyard woodlands.

Not long ago I was sitting out back, having a very pointed and opinionated conversation with God. You might say my conversation was less a conversation with and more a talking at. The cost of owning a 20-year-old home is proving quite expensive, as are the four freeloaders we call our children. The orthodontics and the vision correction and the class trips and the sports teams and the broken A/C and the aging furnace and on and on and all of it just seems to be building up so fast, like one of those timelapse videos where the snow shows up on a perfectly clear back deck and within seconds, the patio furniture is completely covered and the homeowner is totally snowed in.

On top of the mounting expenses, I entered the field of public education in my forties with no such thing as income potential. Not to mention, it’s a job that is heavy and draining as I confront the weighty combination of adolescence and mental health each and every day - all while parenting my own kids through their respective coming-of-age seasons.

I told God that I’m tired. I told God that I’ve had enough. I told God that it’s his fault that I’m in this job, at this season in my life. He knew the secondary trauma I would carry, day after day, the brokenness of the world in the faces of so many kids.

What’s with the double whammy, God? Does it have to be all at once? Did I mention the A/C went out in the minivan as well - the place where I spend so much time that I have literally worn down the leather arm rest to the threads? Is it too much to ask for this midlife woman to get a bit of really cold air every once in a while, without having to stick my head in the freezer next to the tater tots? Also, God, I’m guessing you haven’t priced residential HVAC systems lately. Is that what you want? You just want us all to melt?

I suppose you could say I was having a bit of a first-world moment. A pity party for woah-is-me. After all, I love my job. I actually love my job. But in those shadowy moments, I spiraled, a murkiness overtaking the otherwise good that permeates my life.

Sitting there on my patio, staring at the bird feeder a few feet away, throwing a tantrum while watching the cardinals and sparrows and finches and the good-for-nothing blue jays fly in and out and take and take and take, I got real with God in a less than dignified way.

For a moment, I closed my eyes and I summoned what little faith there was left in my hardening heart and I went so far as to dare God to bring me my favorite bird, a red-bellied woodpecker - having not seen one yet this season - so at the very least I would know that God could hear my whimpering cries.

Losing faith, I opened my eyes and looked up. Squinting and blinking, I took it all in, processing the sight before me.

Staring at the feeder and surrounding trees, it was obvious. The feeder and trees were completely, utterly, eerily empty. Not even the good-for-nothing blue jay was in sight.

God sent me absolutely nothing. Not. One. Bird.

Defeated and disappointed, I went back into the house, pathetic and dreary, in the depths of despair.

What a crock of bull. Life is hard and it’s especially hard when the darkness shows up and snatches any lingering confidence you had that at least God could hear your whining, even if he wasn’t doing anything about it.

I woke up the next morning nauseous, hungover from all the acidic pity in my gut; however, my internal forecast had slightly shifted. With new dawn breaking through the horizon, I discovered a wee little whisper of hope, like the feathery strand of cotton candy left floating between the whirling machine and the hot pink cloud as the candymaker twists its final spin onto the cone. Knowing I couldn’t go another day with a spirit of such malaise, I summoned that whisper of hope and I did something that I had been meaning to do for quite a few days but those days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into me completely forgetting what I had been meaning to do.

I sat outside on my back patio with my coffee, my Bible, a devotional, journal and pen. And I met with Jesus.

I barely had my books and heart cracked open before words began to leap to and from the pages and my heart. God’s promises - his desire to comfort me and carry me - they saturated my empty soul, a soothing salve to my seemingly endless doubting.

Every truth spoke to me as if I was discovering the words for the very first time. I could hardly keep up, the waves of grace knocking me down again and again, like a giddy youngster discovering the wondrous spirit of a playful ocean - sheer delight.

I began furiously making notes, highlighting sections, cross-referencing truths and scribbling on the lines of my journal. I was like a mad scientist who just discovered a new, lifesaving compound, a lab full of colorful concoctions and jumpy explosions as the truths came to life within me.

It was thrilling.

I entered my time with Jesus a full-blown basket-case, almost as good-for-nothing as the lousy blue jay.

Maybe even worse.

But I discovered the gift of what it is to meet with Jesus, no matter our condition. He is there. Jesus is there. The one who loves and comforts and consoles and empathizes and encourages and saves. No matter our condition, his goodness and glory are the same - profound, powerful, perfect, precious. It doesn’t matter how we show up. His grace abounds.

I had no idea how desperate I was for that encounter. And all I had to do was show up.

I guess God speaks to me in ways other than just the birds.

Giddy from the gift of his presence, I set my books down to take a sip of my coffee. I was on a high and needed a sober pause.

As I did, my eyes met the bird feeders, and for the first time in my life, I saw a red-headed woodpecker up close and in the wild, claws attached to the feeder’s base, beak pecking away at a cake of suet.

It was stunning. It was remarkable. It was a miracle.

Mesmerized yet eager to share the moment with my husband - it’s his favorite backyard bird after all - I scrambled for my phone to take a picture. And just as I did, the red-headed beauty flitted away, its black-and-white checkerboard wings disappearing into the woods.

It was as if Jesus was saying, “Oh sweetheart, that one was just for you. No one else.”

I didn’t ask for the red-headed woodpecker. That would be an impossible ask. Heck, I had only ever seen that bird once in my life, that day my sister and I were standing in my kitchen. But God sent me one anyway. A greater gift than I could ever ask or imagine.

Undone by God’s goodness, I found myself skipping through the day. My circumstances still the same but my posture toward them completely transformed.

That evening Matt and I received some unexpected relief in regards to the growing list of home ownership burdens. I’m not a theologian and I usually don’t understand God’s timing, but something about that bit of undeserved relief on that day was like a tsunami size wave of grace, sweeping me up on shore and allowing me to stand mostly upright, less wobbly and less alone, my whole being stretching in confidence and hope.

And the next week, for the entire week, the red-headed woodpecker returned to the feeder each and every day.

Except he wasn’t alone.

Because every time I saw that magnificent bird pecking around the seed and suet, he was with a friend … a red-bellied woodpecker.

It’s all grace … upon grace upon grace.