In the front courtyard of a vacant home for sale in Fountain Hills, Arizona, a bird has made her nest in a God’s flowing hair.

She, quietly, doesn’t move during my interruption of her nesting as I peek through windows at empty rooms.

By the time this house is sold, her eggs will be hatched, her babies will try their wings and fly away to start their own families.

God’s, some believe, write our scripts and they have been written with miscues, forgotten lines, improbable entrances and exits, all at the Great Director’s discretion.

I am wondering, as I film, which script this God is writing for me today?

I would prefer a long boring script, instead of a short intense one, but God’s have a mind of their own and I’ll be given what I need instead of what I want.

 

 

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