A friend and I kayaked around Harvester Island this week. It was evening. The weather was perfect—that heavenly angle of light.

We found some sea caves around the back side of the island. One went deep. No one ever lands on this steep beach or goes into this cave—-nor should they: it’s rank with the mud and smell of land otters.

We did not linger in this strange odiferous place, but just before leaving we both saw it: behind us, halfway down, in the cleft of the rock of the otter cave, a nest. A perfect nest buttressed and shielded by driftwood the storms had wedged into the cleft.

Could any nest be safer?

Then I thought of Gertrude. Remember at the beginning of the summer, those first photos of Gertrude, the bald eaglet in her nest? I was elated to discover her—-that particular nest had been abandoned for 5 years. And now they were back! I was so excited. Here she is, a week old hatchling.

And here a week later. (Oh the exhaustion of eating and sleeping all day and night! Thank goodness for this beak rest!)

And here at six or seven weeks old. She looks more like a turkey than an eagle this point.

But I have not shared any more about Gertrude. She would be flying now, three months old, out of the nest.

Maybe you know what’s coming. It’s about that nest. The one I have watched from afar for years. A few weeks ago I hiked out to it again to check on Gertrude. This is what I saw:

The nest was empty. The hillside and cliff where the parents are always “shopping” for food was empty. No parents. No Gertrude. Had she flown the nest, then? No, she was 3 weeks too young. And other years, even when the eaglets left the nest, the parents still stuck around. I looked at the hillside where I stood. Land otter trails and scat everywhere. I looked more closely at the nest. Feathers. Lots of Gertrude’s feathers.

I hiked home feeling as empty as the nest. And feeling glad I had at least taken some footage the week before of Gertrude living her happy glad daily bald eagle life. I want to remember her like this.

But I must take a lesson here. The nest. It wasn’t safe. It was on a promontory connected to land. Near the land otters. Any clever creature could reach it. Why didn’t the parent eagles’ know this?

The other nest was tucked into a rock above the otter dens, where they couldn’t reach.

Two birds facing the same enemy, the same predator. Yet the tiny bird (I don’t know what species) knew better than the mighty eagle where to lay its eggs and its head, where to find sleep, raise their young,

I don’t know how God put it in the tiny bird’s little heart to find the cleft of the rock. But he’s put it in mine as well. Don’t we need it? We hear of death all around. The pandemic. Politics are killing us. Enemies stalk. It was the same in King David’s day. But he knew where to find rest. He knew the only Rock who would listen, who would make room for him:

“Lift up the light of your face upon us, O Lord!

And because God did, and because God does,

In peace I will both lie down and sleep;

For you alone, O LORD, make me dwell in safety.

For you alone, O God, make me dwell in safety.

Build your nest there.

Sheltering with you,

Leslie