I have good plans for you, not plans to hurt you. I
will give you hope and a good future.

JEREMIAH 29:11

What I intended as good was interpreted as bad . . . by a hummingbird.
        Dozens of the little fellows linger around our house. It’s a cordial relationship. We provide the nectar, and they provide the amusement.

Yesterday one of them got into trouble. He flew into the garage and got lost. Though the door was open for him to exit, he didn’t see it. He insisted, instead, on bashing his head against a closed window. He was determined to get out, but his determination would not break the glass.

Soon our whole family was in the garage, empathizing with his confusion. “Help him out, Daddy,” came the chorus from my kids.

So I tried. I raised the window, hoping he’d fly out—he didn’t. He rode the frame as it rose. I nudged him with a broom handle, hoping he’d fly though the open window below. He didn’t. I bumped him harder. He wouldn’t budge. Finally, after several firm pokes he made a move . . . the wrong way. Instead of flying forward, he fluttered backward inside the two window panes. Now he was trapped.

What a pitiful sight. A little bird bouncing inside the glass. I had no choice. I stuck my fingers in the opening, grabbed a few feathers, and jerked him out. I’m sure he didn’t appreciate the yank, but at least he was free. And when he got back to his nest, did he ever have a story to tell.

“I had a horrible day, Martha. I got stuck in this huge room with a fake exit. They made it look like a hole, but it wasn’t. Then they tried to crush me with this moving ledge. But it stopped just before it reached the top. The big, ugly one came after me with a stick. Just when he was about to spear me I made a move for it. I dodged him but fell into their trap—a narrow room with invisible walls. How cruel. I could see them pointing at me. I’m sure they were hungry. Then the ugly one came after me again, this time with his fingers. He was going for my neck. I outfoxed him, though. Just when he pulled me out, I kicked loose and put it in turbocharge and escaped. It’s a good thing I did or they would have had hummingburgers for dinner.”

I was being kind. The bird thought I was cruel. If only the little bird had known that I had come to help. If only the little fellow had known that I was on his side. If only he had understood that the moving ledge and stick were for his protection.

If only he knew . . .

Now, I may be overdoing it with the hummingbird, but I’m not overdoing it with the point. Daily, God’s extended aid is misinterpreted as intended hurt. We complain of closed windows, not noticing the huge open doors. We panic as the ledge rises, oblivious to the exit below. We dodge the stick that guides and avoid the fingers that liberate.

“If only you knew . . .” were my words to the bird.

“If only you knew . . .” are God’s words to us.¹

No lectures. No speeches. No homilies on how far he has come to help. No finger-pointing at our past. None of that. Just an appeal. An appeal for trust. “If only you knew . . .”

“If only you knew that I came to help and not condemn. If only you knew that tomorrow will be better than today. If only you knew the gift I have brought: eternal life. If only you knew I want you safely home.”

If only you knew.

What wistful words to come from the lips of God. How kind that he would let us hear them. How crucial that we pause to hear them. If only we knew to trust. Trust that God is in our corner. Trust that God wants what is best. Trust that he really means it when he says, “I have good plans for you, not plans to hurt you. I will give you hope and a good future” (Jer. 29:11).

If only we could learn to trust him.

But how hard it is. We quiver like the bird on the ledge, ducking the hand that comes to help. We forget that he is the pilot and we are his passenger.

We accuse, falsely. We reject, naively.

If only we knew.

When he washed the disciples’ feet, he was washing ours; when he calmed their storms, he was calming yours; when he forgave Peter, he was forgiving all the penitent. If only we knew.

He still sends pigeons to convince the lost and music to inspire the dance.

He still makes our storms his path, our graves his proof, and our souls his passion.

He hasn’t changed.

He trims branches so we can bear fruit;

he calls the sheep that we might be safe;

he hears the prayers of crooks so we might go home.

His thunder is still gentle.

And his gentleness still thunders.

If only you knew “the free gift of God and who it is that is asking you . . .”

The gift and the Giver. If you know them, you know all you need.