Travelling through a different place, we paused to look through an old church. As we left, we placed an offering on the little table with a silent prayer of thanks because it was there.
Many years later, our offering that day reminded me of the offerings I find from visitors to my garden.
As I walk down the hillside among the trees and the roses and geraniums, I find feathers in the grass or among the bushes from the birds who visit us.
The feathers have become quite a collection in a variety of colours and shapes and sizes. Like talking tokens, they are ‘thank you’ notes of joy for the food and shade in the garden.
As I pick them up, I say a silent prayer of thanks to the one who inspired the growing and the giving of them. They seem to me to be offerings like the one we left in the old church.
Then one day, away from my garden, in the steel and cement of the city, I was making an expensive purchase. I had been thinking about it for days and had done my homework. Carefully I looked over the intended purchase while the salesman stood by for my decision.
Still hesitant, I walked slowly around the intended purchase again as I had already done several times, eyes running up and down, thoughts swirling. Right now, I so much wanted a token to say the purchase was right for me.
Then I saw it, the tiniest bird’s feather, so small you could hardly see it. It was a breast feather from a pigeon and it seemed to have only just now floated down. It was sitting there, in that illogical, inhospitable place, exactly where I would see it, as though it had been put there especially for me.
I recognised it as a talking token from the King’s office where ‘Even the sparrow finds a home, and the swallow has her nest where she rears her brood beside your altars, Lord of Hosts, my King and my God,’ (Psalm 84:3).
‘Thank you,’ I said silently in a bubble of joy as I picked it up.
I nodded to the salesman, and put the tiny feather carefully into my handbag.
Elizabeth Price