A Cardinal at the Window - The Fortune of the Forest Friends

I have something to confess — and something to attest to. I’ll start with the latter.

In the chaos of getting ready for the weekend, we needed to give our daughter some medicine for a developing cough. The medication requires a device with a bright yellow cap on the back — large, unmistakable, the sort of thing you shouldn’t easily lose.

My wife called looking for it. My mother-in-law searched for it. I searched for it. We turned the entire floor upside down trying to find this bright yellow cap. Every object around the area had been lifted, flipped, or moved.

It was nowhere.

Now for the confession.

This year hasn’t been a strong one for art sales. Social media has a funny way of making everyone look like they’re wildly successful — “I went viral!”, “I’m a millionaire!”, endless attention-seeking theatrics designed to appease algorithms. But the reality behind the scenes is often quieter.

Economic pressures ripple everywhere. Many artists I know have felt the same downturn. When people tighten their budgets, art is often one of the first luxuries to disappear.

For years I’ve committed to sending 20% of my profits to conservation charities, particularly organizations that protect wildlife habitats like the Nature Conservancy of Canada. But with fewer sales and the constant investment needed to continue carving — stone, tools, equipment — I’ve been operating at a deficit for quite some time.

So this year my giving has been minimal. About $350 total, and even that came from a deficit.

On top of the financial pressure and the usual winter blues, I’ve been slipping in another way too. I haven’t been feeding the birds the way I normally do. Our feeder is usually filled every couple of days, but lately it had gone nearly three weeks without being replenished.

I justified it to myself. If I wasn’t making enough to give to conservation causes, maybe it made sense to ration the bird seed too.

Yesterday something interesting happened.

A cardinal landed in the tree outside our window.

That’s unusual. Cardinals are cautious birds, almost as wary of human movement as blue jays. They usually keep their distance. But this one came close, peering toward the window as if inspecting us.

My wife and I noticed him immediately. He lingered briefly, then flew away.

Something about it stuck with me.

I turned to my wife and said, “I’m going to go feed the birds. He’s probably asking for some.”

So I went outside and filled the feeder.

When I came back inside, I glanced at the spot where I had originally thought I’d left the yellow cap — the one we’d searched for everywhere.

And there it was.

Exactly where I had first remembered putting it.

I asked my wife if she had found it and placed it there while I was outside. She hadn’t. My mother-in-law hadn’t either. Both of them had searched that exact spot earlier, turning over everything nearby.

Yet somehow the cap had appeared in plain sight.

We stood there for a moment, both of us puzzled, replaying the search in our heads. It remains an unsolved mystery — and perhaps that’s how it should remain.

Because moments like this make me wonder if there are things happening in the world we simply don’t perceive.

We spend enormous effort trying to explain the mechanisms of the physical world, trying to make everything measurable, predictable, and provable. Yet sometimes small moments slip through the cracks of that certainty.

For centuries people have spoken about this idea: that we are spiritual beings experiencing a physical world. And when something unusual happens — a bird appearing at the right moment, a need suddenly being met — it nudges us toward that deeper perspective.

In many traditions, cardinals are considered messengers. Symbols of presence. Reminders that something beyond our immediate understanding is paying attention.

It made me think of the story of Elijah in the Bible. During a drought, he hides by a brook, and God instructs ravens to bring him bread and meat twice a day. An unlikely delivery system, but the message is simple: sometimes provision arrives through unexpected channels.

I’ve had similar little gifts from nature before — once finding a dried morel mushroom placed neatly on a back step, as if left there deliberately by some woodland friend.

Moments like these feel like tiny epiphanies. Small reminders that life may hold more connection and meaning than we usually notice.

In the middle of pressure, responsibility, and the constant grind of daily life, we forget that.

Jesus once said:

“Consider the ravens: They do not sow or reap, they have no storeroom or barn; yet God feeds them. And how much more valuable you are than birds! Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to your life?”

Sometimes we need reminders like that.

In the middle of obligations, stress, and uncertainty, it’s easy to forget that we are not entirely alone in this world. We share this land with countless other creatures, and caring for them — even in small ways like filling a bird feeder — is part of our responsibility.

Perhaps when we care for what’s around us, we’re reminded that we are cared for too.

As we care for each other, God will take care of us.