Nature Archives - call me pasturescott

more than a hobby

[726 words, 4 minutes]

Now for something a little different. Some of you know I have a thing for bird photography—nature photography in general, really. It may be a hobby, but I cannot overstate what it’s done for my soul. I have discovered a healing in it that’s hard to put into words.

It started with a simple bird feeder in our backyard years ago (circa 2015). Over time that feeder attracted as many as fifteen different varieties of colorful songbirds to our yard. At its zenith our backyard not only became a sanctuary for birds but a quiet sanctuary for my soul.

Still grieving the loss of our only child, and respiting from massive health issues that required years of rehabilitation, I sought refuge in the backyard by watching (and listening) to “my” birds. It may have only been my imagination, but I was certain the trees came alive with the sounds of chatting songbirds every time I rolled out onto our back patio. Birds are very smart, you know. Undoubtedly they chittered on about the old guy and their supper.

Early on, when it seemed like birdwatching was becoming more than just a hobby of mine, I asked Sandy what she thought about my buying a camera to photograph and post “my” birds on social media. Sandy’s first reaction was a good natured laugh.

“Are you sure? I mean, I’ve seen some of the photos you’ve taken with the phone,” she chortled playfully. “More than a few have our heads cut off.”
“Ha. Ha. Very funny. Anyway, I could learn. Oh, and it so happens Amazon is having a sale on cameras this week…”

That conversation sparked my journey through a range of cameras, from an entry-level Nikon to Canon, then an upgraded Canon, and finally back to Nikon. I’d love to own a mirrorless someday, but that’s not financially feasible.

While I don’t get out with my camera quite as often as I used to — or as often as I’d like — I still can’t help myself from mentally framing a shot when I spot a bird out in the wild of suburbia.

Here are a few shots that I’m pretty happy to have in my camera roll, some new, some taken quite early on. If you’ll indulge me, I’ll just leave these with you for now.

Great Egret, Venice Audubon Rookery, Venice, FL

Brown Thrasher, Douglasville, GA, early photo

One of my favorite (early) healing trails: Florence Rd Trailhead, Hiram, GA

Red-shouldered Hawk, Silver Comet Trail, Powder Springs, GA

Tri-colored Heron, Kapok Park, Clearwater. FL

Silver Comet Trail in Autumn, Floyd Rd Trailhead, Mableton, GA

Osprey, Weedon Island Preserve, St. Pete, FL (with Hurricane Helene just offshore)

One of my favorite theologians, John Stott, was an avowed birder. Of the estimated 9,000 species of birds in the world today, Stott claims to have spotted 2,500 in his 87 years. He first developed a love for birdwatching by taking long walks with his dad. “Close your mouth and open your eyes and your ears, son,” his father instructed him.

He found “the highest possible authority” for his hobby in the Sermon on the Mount where Jesus tells us to “look at the birds of the air” (Matthew 6:26). He says that, in basic English, Jesus is telling us to “watch birds” and he points out that the Greek verb used means “to fix the eyes on or take a good look at.”

I believe I’ll keep on doing that until the day I die, with or without a camera. I’ve already asked the Lord for a thriving bird sanctuary in the new heavens and new earth, and I have little doubt my Father will oblige. I know I won’t get bored.

Selah, beloved.

the grand canyon and heaven too

Most of you know I was blessed to draw a line through a big item on my bucket list last year. There we were, Sandy and I, road trippin’ with two best friends, Alan and Kelli, across the southern U.S. Target: Grand Canyon.

I could do a huge photo dump of some of our grandest shared memories, but I’ll spare you that. Instead, I’ll leave you with two or three snapshots that practically tell the whole epic story.

I’ve been told by veteran visitors of the GC that the funnest part is to go with someone who has never been before. Then just stand back as they approach the rim and watch their expression. I was the one being watched that day and I’m pretty sure I followed the first-timer script.

But that’s enough about me. Let’s talk about this guy:

I probably took over a hundred photos during those eight or so hours at the southern rim. There are better shots than this, but this one is a sermon in itself.

This dude walked out on nature’s platform and, quite eloquently, turned it into a pulpit. He was an orator facing an Audience of One; I just so happened to be in the wings, eavesdropping.

As I watched, he stood there a few moments, hands in pockets, taking it all in. He may have sighed, I don’t know (I didn’t have my long lens with me). Keeping my finger on the trigger, I spied through the camera’s viewfinder thinking it made a pretty good photo on its own.

I snapped off a couple shots.

Then, slowly, he pulled one hand out of his pocket and raised a lone finger toward the sky. His face turned upward and looked where he was pointing. Like so:

I didn’t see him again the rest of the day. But I have to tell you, his actions out there in the cold sunshine, atop the canyon, moved me to the core. I got chills. The photo still does it to me.

It was a miracle we got to see the Grand Canyon at all. It had snowed to beat the band the day before — all day long. Visibility, zero. Wind gusts, treacherous. The roads to the canyon were impassable; it wasn’t until the very early morning hours they were reopened. This was the only day we could visit; the next day we would set out on our long return drive to Georgia.

Think of what we would’ve missed. Yes, the Grand Canyon. Of course, that. But we would’ve also missed a guy out on a ledge at the Grand Canyon experiencing God in the moment.

There was another guy at the Grand Canyon that day. He, too, was lifting a hand skyward but in his upraised hand was … a cell phone.

Dude was crazy. Far out on an outcropping of rock firing off selfies from all angles, he kept backing up, not paying attention to his six. There was a harrowing moment when I thought the Canyon might claim another life.

Guy #1 was pointing at the heavens that day, yielding worship to the Almighty Creator. Around the same time, Guy #2 was focusing on himself, playing fast and loose with gravity. There’s a sermon in there if you care to try.

Scroll back up to Guy #1 and see how small he is in the frame. He’s miniaturized by his surroundings. What is man that thou art mindful of him? indeed. Amid a selfie-obsessed generation, be Guy #1; he knows who he is and whose he is.

To that end, he permutates into an arrow, pointing away from himself, and directs his whole being heavenward. If we could see into the other realm we might witness the heavens opened and a whole host of beings ascending and descending, glorifying God and praising.

We are all starved for the glory of God, not self. No one goes to the Grand Canyon to increase self-esteem. Why do we go? Because there is greater healing for the soul in beholding splendor than there is in beholding self.
— John Piper

Here’s an idea: why not pause right now and lift a finger into the air and aim your praise at the Savior. Offer up humble thanks that he’s put you where he wants you, in frame, where you can testify to an eavesdropping world that Jesus isn’t just part of the Story, he’s the whole Point of the Story.

Selah, beloved. Oh, and here’s one final photo from that day at the canyon:

I Wonder If There Were Cowbirds at the Manger

A female cowbird photographed through our dining room window on Christmas morn. She told me a story.

I had a new visitor Christmas morn.

While my bride battled a head cold on the sofa near the Christmas tree (one of seven displayed throughout our home), I brewed my morning coffee as the rain-soaked sky continued to gloomy-gus over our hamlet. Listening to the Keurig spit out my favorite Dark Magic blend (wish Green Mountain would choose a less nefarious name), I took my watch at the kitchen window to see the haps at the feeder. In that moment I noticed an unfamiliar addition to our backyard collection.

A genteel cowbird perched there amid raindrops, for all the world like she owned the place. Only, I’d never seen one in our yard before this.

Immediately, I went to the old bookcase (my iPad) and pulled a volume from the row of World Book encyclopedias (Google) to study what I could glean on the subject of brown-headed cowbirds.

I learned the female cowbird spends its energy on laying eggs, not building nests. And she’ll lay a lot! She’ll place her eggs in other birds’ nests (ranging from as many as 140-220 other host species), hoping her young will be favorably treated and cared for.

Just so, the Christmas blessing: God placed His Son in the borrowed ‘nest’ of a young woman who raised Jesus as her own, treasuring her Gift and releasing Him for His eternal work of redemption, desiring all to choose the Son of God.

I also discovered that many momma birds who get wise to the insertion of an alien egg will destroy it or cast it out. A female warbler might even construct a new nest on top of the original one now bearing the undesired foreigner. This reminded me that Jesus was “despised and rejected” by many (still the case) and “there was no beauty found in Him that earth-dwellers should desire Him.”¹

One last τυπος (type) I uncovered from the cowbird’s relation to the message of Advent has to do with the Advent that we now long for: the return of Messiah to establish His visible Kingdom of righteousness and justice and rule over the nations of the earth.

It probably shouldn’t shock you to learn that mother cowbirds have been known to visit the nests of the birds that mistreated and rejected her young and completely destroy their dwellings. Um, I’ll just leave this right here and let you draw your own conclusions.

All this got me thinking: I wonder, amid the oxen and sheep, a donkey or two, and perhaps a spare milk-cow, there might not have been some birds flitting quietly about at the feeding-trough that Silent Night in Bethlehem.

I wonder if the Father might not have arranged to have a momma cowbird among the manger’s visitors. If the young parents of their firstborn had noticed, they might have understood more of the significance of that bundle. Perhaps, perhaps not. All I know is I saw it (again) this Christmas morn.

¹See Isaiah 53:2,3