The Story of Light: A Creative Retelling of the Big Story of the Bible

“God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light. And God saw that the light was good.’” From the third verse in the Bible, light and goodness intersect. Later in the Gospel of John, we learn that not only did God create literal light, but that He himself is symbolically light—that by which we see all things. 

We were created to be in this light, to bask in it, to live our lives in its warmth. To string it up along our Christmas trees, to reflect on its illumination and realize that God is every bit as good as He claims to be. Light reminds us that he’s good, that he provides, that he’s powerful. After all, he just spoke, and there it was—light. Is there anything more powerful than that?

But as with any story, that’s only the beginning. Darkness crept in, the way it always creeps in: When we doubt God’s light-creating words. We see it first in the Garden of Eden: Satan whispers to Eve, “Did God really say…” Eve wondered—did God really mean what he said? Is God holding out on me? Is God really good?

Adam and Eve sinned, and the sin changed everything. Instead of basking in light, sin made them want to hide: “They heard the sound of the Lord God walking in the garden in the cool of the day, and the man and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the Lord God” (Genesis 3:8). And so it started: hiding, shame, separation. We were created to be with him, to live in his light, but the sin divides things that are meant to be together. Cast out of the garden, Adam and Eve found themselves away from the one true light, plunged into darkness.

This was not just a simple separation—it was a chasm. The chasm between God and man was too deep for anyone to cross, too dark for anyone to conquer. And like a child whose father cannot look at her because of what she’s done, shame became the new reality, expertly tangling itself around our hearts, fusing its darkness into our DNA. Separate from God and devilishly intertwined with shame, we desperately needed rescue. We desperately needed reconciliation. We desperately needed light. And yet we kept chasing the darkness, craving the way it helped us hide.

Even while we chased after the darkness, we saw glimpses of light: God spoke to Moses through a burning bush, led the Israelites through the wilderness with a pillar of fire. He spoke through prophets, he spoke through plagues. He pursued and pursued—36 Old Testament books record his pursuit of us, of God calling his people to himself.

But then, he was silent. And this was not an ordinary silence: God did not speak for 400 years. What is a simple flip of a page for us represents four centuries of silence, generations of humanity hiding in the darkness. Is there anything more hopeless than silence?

But finally—after 400 years, silence was broken. Broken with a baby’s cry.

The baby’s birth was foretold by an angel of the Lord, whose robes shone bright enough to inspire fear, his brightness a mere glimpse of the glorious place from which he came. And he spoke: “‘Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall call his name Immanuel’ (which means, God with us)” (Matthew 1:23). 

God with us? Could God be with us again? In the pain of separation, this is the most beautiful news: I am coming to be with you.

And Jesus was born, not clothed in bright robes of heavenly glory but in swaddling clothes from an earthly loom. Mary held in her arms that for which the world had always yearned: Emmanuel. God with us. In a dark, dirty stable, he was God, and he was light, somehow more brilliant than the host of angels that announced his birth. “In him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1:4-5).

The baby grew into a man, and the man said things no one could believe. He spoke as one who had authority. He said, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life” (John 8:12). Everything He did and said made people marvel, made people wonder: “Is He the one we’ve been waiting for?”

And as he taught, hope spread faster than a flame. The hurting, the discarded, the outcast—there was no one to whom his light could not extend. Crowds were drawn to him, as if they knew they were created to bask in light like his. The Light extinguished not only the external darkness of disease and death but the internal darkness of sin. As 2 Corinthians 4:6 says, “For God, who said, ‘Let there be light in the darkness,’ has made this light shine in our hearts so we could know the glory of God that is seen in the face of Jesus Christ.” It was the brightest time in history, and its rays still stretch out to us today, some 2000 years later.

But The Story of Light is not finished with Jesus’ life. Darkness had been pierced but not conquered. In the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus, wholly God and yet as human as you and I, became overwhelmed by what was required. As blood-infused sweat dripped down his forehead, he cried out. He cried out to the one whose presence he had always enjoyed, whose words he had always treasured. He cried out to Father God to spare him. It was too much. It was too dark. But even in his agony, he did what we should all do in moments of oppressive darkness: he said, “Not my will, but yours be done.”

Darkness came that night with swords. Jesus addressed the angry mob in Luke 22:53: “When I was with you day after day in the temple, you did not lay hands on me. But this is your hour, and the power of darkness.”

They took light, and they pierced his hands and feet, they spat in his face, they splayed the lash across his back. Those whom he created looked at him with hate, those who once cheered his name called for his life. His disciples turned and ran—the darkness too fearful to bear. Light was growing dim.

In Psalm 22 we hear the prophetic words: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, from the words of my groaning?” (v. 1). Jesus called out to the one who always heard, to the one whose words he always treasured, but this time, there was no response. Through the intense pain of crucifixion, he bore our sin, but he also bore our separation. Oh the agony of a child when a father has turned away! Like a little girl with her nose pressed up to a glass door as her daddy drives away forever, the psalmist begs: “Be not far from me, for trouble is near, and there is none to help” (v. 11). Jesus cried out, but there was no one to hear. He bore not just our sin, but our separation. He became sin who knew no sin, and Father God turned his head.

“It was now about the sixth hour, and there was darkness over the whole land until the ninth hour, while the sun’s light failed. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two. Then Jesus, calling out with a loud voice, said, ‘Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!’ And having said this he breathed his last. Now when the centurion saw what had taken place, he praised God, saying, ‘Certainly this man was innocent!’ And all the crowds that had assembled for this spectacle, when they saw what had taken place, returned home beating their breasts.” Luke 23:44-48

It was a dark day indeed. Mere hours before, Jesus had been sharing a meal with his disciples, saying curious, ominous words about the bread: This is my body, broken for you. And curious, ominous words about the wine: This is my blood, spilled for you. They took it, and they ate and drank. Maybe they shrugged it off like we often do, ignorant obedience. But within hours—there was his literal body: broken. And there was his actual blood: spilled. As their stomachs turned when Jesus breathed his last, did they remember the sacrifice they had ingested?

Separation reigned again, and with it, the blackest night. He was wrapped up in darkness, enclosed in a tomb. Saturday was oppressively black, the sky thick with death and hopelessness. But in the darkness, we remember the whispered hope: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not over come it” (John 1:5).

Because Sunday—Sunday was different. On Sunday, a cold, still heart warmed, began to beat. On Sunday, pierced, lifeless hands stretched out. On Sunday, closed, unseeing eyes opened. On Sunday, God proved—the light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it!

“Behold there was a great earthquake, for an angel of the Lord descended from heaven and came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. And for fear of him the guards trembled and became like dead men. But the angel said to the women, ‘Do not be afraid, for I know that you seek Jesus who was crucified. He is not here, for he has risen, as he said. Come, see” (Luke 28:2-6).

Death did not win, and there is no better news. How fascinating, how fitting that the first telling of the story is entrusted to women—God knows who’s best at spreading information. And of course the women shared the news and shared it well: “Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, ‘I have seen the Lord’” (John 20:18).

Our Jesus is alive, and this is no small thing. This is no Easter thing. This is every thing. The old song says, “Because he lives, I can face tomorrow/Because he lives, all fear is gone” —but these are not simply words to an old song, this is our commissioning. Because he lives, all fear is gone. With the grave conquered, what have we to fear? It's the ultimate proof that God is the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

Because he lives, we take the bread and the wine, allowing his brokenness and his spilled blood to find their way to our insides, permeating our every part. His sacrifice is our sustenance. With tastebuds aware that our togetherness with him came at great cost, we let the cost become a part of us, allowing it to light us up from the inside out, changing the way we live, the way we talk, the way we love. The bread and the wine remind us that Jesus loved us enough to die, that sin and separation and darkness are no match for a love like that.

But here's the obvious and yet not so obvious thing about light: it causes us to see. When we are basking in light, we can better see those around us, and we realize that much of the world is still hiding in darkness, desperate for its coverage, dead in sin, unaware of the victory and the healing power of light. Like John 3:21 says, “The light has come into the world, and the people loved the darkness rather than the light.”

We must preach light to a world that loves darkness. We must preach light to a world oppressed by sin, separate from God. We must preach light to a world that groans.

Don’t you hear the groaning (Romans 8:22)? I hear it. I hear it when I learn of another marriage that’s dissolving. I hear it when a friend calls in tears. I hear it when I’m told of another high school classmate we’ve lost. I hear it with every news article about fires, about terrorism, about shootings. Why does social media tell me, the mother of two precious babies, all the ways that babies can die? Sometimes the whole earth seems to join in a collective cry: “God! Why have you forsaken us?”

Because babies do die.
Parents leave.
Friends betray.
Addiction enslaves.
Cancer steals

But in the groaning (oh friends, I hear you!), in the darkness of Saturday, may we not forget the whispered hope: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1:5).

This is why Jesus loaned us his own metaphor. In Matthew, he calls us light: “You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden. Nor do people light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a stand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven” (v. 14-16).

This is why we, like Mary Magdalene, shout “I have seen the Lord!” Shout like the psalmist, “Come and see what God has done!” This is why we tell our children, “let me tell you what God has done for my soul.” This is why His story must ever be on our lips.

What great hope we can tell this groaning earth that the story is not done! The last book of the entire Bible reveals the ultimate ending, the ultimate conquering of darkness: 

“Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” Revelation 21:3-4

“They will need no light of lamp or sun, for the Lord God will be their light, and they will reign forever and ever.” Revelation 22:5

And so, until the day when he physically dwells with us again, until the day when He wipes away every tear, until the day when His glory quite literally lights our path, let’s remind ourselves, let’s remind one another what he’s done. Let’s remind one another who he is. He is Light, and he is good. He is God, and he is with us.

Dear, light-bearer: The dark world is in desperate need of you. The same God who spoke light into existence has spoken the same word over you. May you shine as obediently and as brilliantly as the rays at the beginning of Creation. May you feel the warmth of the Light of the World, because he is here: Emmanuel, God with us.

Carol the Owl

I am a night owl. Always have been. I come alive at night, I get creative at night, I get excited at night. I am fun at sleepovers. But this is not conducive to mom life, I have learned.

For example, every day at about 5 p.m., I think I’m going to die. I start cooking dinner, which makes me sleepy because sometimes I have to read directions (recipes), and I hate that. Meanwhile, I have a kid attached to each leg, chanting a little chorus of “Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom.” They are cute and PERSISTENT. At this point, my nerves are totally shot because I’ve had one little person or another constantly touching me for something like 9 hours, and you probably already knew this, but they aren’t really asking me to respond when they chant my name. They just like to say it over and over. It’s the toddler version of the co-worker who taps you on the shoulder a million times while you're talking to someone else until eventually you turn into the Trunchbull and toss them out the window and your brain explodes like a volcano and lava leaks out of your ears.

When my husband gets home, he perceives the impending ear lava and lures the kiddos away for some play time. I abandon dinner and escape to our bedroom for five minutes of deep breathing and scripture meditation. (Just kidding, I stare into nothingness or look at my phone, which is kind of the same thing.) Of course, on the other side of the house, husband started to look at his phone, too, and the kids, ever the little geniuses, see their moment of escape and find me again. “Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom.” So I get up, wearing one toddler on each leg (I am very fashionable), yell at husband, and finish dinner. We pingpong back and forth between adorableness and madness until eventually everyone has been served dinner, rejected dinner, had dinner forced upon them, been bathed, pajama-ed, kissed, and sent to bed, and I collapse on the couch, fully intending to rest. Except I can't because now it's dark outside, and I'm excited. I am no longer Trunchbull. I am Giselle from Enchanted, and I am singing to forest creatures. This night holds possibility! What could I do with all this fun free time? GISELLE, NO. You will stay up all night and then be tired tomorrow, too. Just sit. Except I need to clean up really quick, and then I'll sit. So I clean a bit (just a bit, I'm not completely insane), and for the first time all day, I feel productive. This gets me jazzed. “OH NO I’M GETTING JAZZED,” I say to my husband. “Do not get jazzed,” he says. I ignore the jazz, and light a candle. I will relax! But this candle smells so good an looks so cozy. “I LOVE THIS CANDLE!” I proclaim. “No, Caroline,” husband says. “You are getting jazzed. You always get jazzed.” “I can't help it,” I say. “I cannot stop the jazz. I feel the jazz deep in my bones.”

And then we're doomed. I get hyper and joke with him too much and he has to run away. I write something ridiculous (this), I paint something unnecessary, I pin everything Pinterest has to offer, mainly pictures of pink Christmas trees. And also I really want a white Christmas tree. “CAN I HAVE A WHITE CHRISTMAS TREE?” I yell to husband, who is in the other room, attempting to escape me. But my toddlers have taught me perseverance, and I turn into the 30-year-old version of them: Luke. Luke. Luke. Luke. Luke. What are you doing? Are you mad at me? Do you like me? What show is this? Is it good? I hate zombies. Do you like white Christmas trees? Don't you think you have too many t-shirts? Can I throw some of them out? Will you read this thing I wrote and tell me if it's weird?

He walks away but I chase him with my laptop. He makes a snack. I continue: I’ll make nachos if you want! I am so into nachos now. Have I told you about the nachos? Can we talk about your peanut butter and jelly sandwich making strategy because I have a few pointers, and also do you think it will help our marriage if I buy you your own jug of milk so that I don’t become enraged when you drink straight out of the gallon?

I begin sixteen projects, some necessary work or ministry related things, some not even close, research at least one bizarre historical figure or superstalk someone I barely know, until eventually I am finally tired and therefore grumpy. I sit around and complain for a while that I’m too tired to get ready for bed, but I finally summon the energy. It's after midnight when I finally fall into bed, and I inevitably start feeling stressed about how tired I will be tomorrow, which tempts me to make a list of all the things I need to remember to do tomorrow, but no, no, owl Caroline! Just rest, do not make lists! The self-lecturing makes it hard to fall asleep, but eventually I do, mainly because I stole my husband’s pillow, and his is much, much better than mine. “Tomorrow I will buy a good pillow for me,” I think, adding that to tomorrow's to-do list, which I wasn't supposed to do but did anyway.

I wake up the next morning with a jazz hangover. “I will not do that again tonight,” I say. “I will not get jazzed.”

(But I do. I always do.)

Written by a jazzed Caroline, at 9 p.m. on a Thursday night. Whoo whoo!

 

The God Who Sees Me

Originally posted on my old blog in March 2014. Sweet baby girl Adelaide is now 2.5 years old.

Well, two weeks ago, I had a baby. And the entire thing makes me giddy, and I take one thousand pictures of her a day. Sometimes I post a picture or two (or five…) of her, and I absolutely love being able to share that sweet face. But every time I do, I hear a little soft whisper. It reminds me that even though everyone loves a picture of a soft, squishy baby, it’s a hard thing to see sometimes. Because for some people, that tiny little bundle feels like a slap in the face, a reminder of the thing that hasn’t happened, the thing you’ve prayed for, but the prayers feel like they smack into the ceiling and refuse to go any higher.

My husband and I had a hard time getting pregnant. It wasn’t the years-long struggle that other people have endured—dear God, please comfort those precious couples—but it was hard for us. There were tears and doctor’s appointments and tests and medicine, and then there was the month that the medicine didn’t work. They said, “Well, we’ll have to try something else.” And again I felt my heart drop to my feet. Because trying to have a baby isn’t the kind of endeavor where you progress. It’s pass/fail every month, and sometimes the fail stings a lot more deeply than you think. Because this is your family you are fighting for, and even when you don’t know your family yet, you still have that deep desire to hold them close. So when you see other people announcing a pregnancy or posting pictures of a perfect sleeping newborn, you feel slighted. Sad. Sometimes angry.

But that was the month—the month where the medicine didn’t work—I found out I was pregnant. Cautiously and fearfully, I walked outside and called the doctor’s office. Can I trust this test? Am I allowed to be excited? The nurse said, “Congratulations!” and I cried in the middle of the street. And then these words leapt into my mind, “You are the God who sees me” (Genesis 16:13). God had seen my tears, and he knew my hurt. I wondered why I ever questioned it. Perspective is easy once the prayer is answered, I realized. Lord, strengthen my faith.

The doctor said, “Well I can’t explain it, but the proof is in the pudding.” But I realized that I could explain it. It’s so like God to give me a baby the one month that science said it was impossible. He likes to do things we can't explain. He likes to remind us that life is in his hands, not ours. We call it “birth control” and subconsciously develop the belief that having children is up to us, but it’s not.

And that’s when God really began to work in my heart. My entire pregnancy I battled more fear than I ever had in my entire life. Would God give me this baby just to take her away? At one point while singing at church, after hearing multiple prayer requests for women who had endured miscarriages—God, please wrap your arms around those dear women; heal their wounded hearts!—the fear overwhelmed me, and I had to let the microphone fall to my side and let the tears fall. It wasn’t the time to sing. It was the time to be held. And God held me with lyrics I still sing to myself in moments of hopelessness:

“There’s no life apart from you.” 
(“Lay Me Down” by Chris Tomlin)

“I know who goes before me
I know who stands behind
The God of Angel’s Armies
Is always by my side” 
(“Whom Shall I Fear” by Chris Tomlin)

“All of my life
In every season
You are still God
I have a reason to sing
I have a reason to worship” 
(“Desert Song” by Hillsong United)

I had to sing these lyrics to myself through every scary moment—the fifteen days she was overdue where I worried my body was failing her (“You are not normal,” a voice whispered), the week of contractions where I worried if she was okay (“God will take her away,” it whispered), the days I battled infection and was hospitalized when she was a week old (“You can’t provide what she needs,” I heard). I had to cling with everything I had to Isaiah 26:3, which says, “You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you.” Caroline, focus on HIM, and you can have peace.

The lesson is this:

God is the CREATOR and SUSTAINER of life. 
No breath is without his permission, 
No heartbeat without his blessing. 
Life is in His hands.
He knows what’s ahead, 
He knows what’s behind, 
and He provides.


There’s a verse that people always use to celebrate the birth of a child: “I prayed for this child, and the Lord has granted me what I asked of him” (1 Samuel 1:27). It’s a beautiful verse that is dear to my heart because it’s my story. But the next verse is the one I walk in when I’m afraid: “Now I give him to the Lord. For his whole life he will be given over to the Lord” (1 Samuel 1:28).

Adelaide belongs to God more than she will ever belong to me. She is his more than she will ever be mine. I can trust God with her because he loves her more dearly that I can ever imagine. She is his masterpiece—as if I could ever take credit for something so wonderful. (Seriously, she’s really cute.)

I wrestle with fear all the time, just like those days when we were struggling to conceive. The illusion of control is a hard pill to swallow. I have to give my family back to God over and over again. So this is my mantra: “Now I give Adelaide to the Lord. For her whole life she will be given over to the Lord.”

I can trust God with Adelaide. I can trust God with my family. And for the times when I fall short, I thank God for 2 Timothy 2:13: “If we are faithless, he remains faithful, for he cannot disown himself.”

Sweet friend,
Wherever you are in your life, you can trust God. 
He knows where you’re going, and he knows where you’ve been. 
He hears you, he sees your tears. 
You are seen.


A video about our story was shown at our church the Sunday before I wrote this post, and the way a few people responded made me realize the value in being honest about the hard things we go through, and that has been my commissioning ever since. You can watch the video here.

To the Young Ones

“Let no one despise you for your youth, but set the believers an example in speech, in conduct, in love, in faith, and in purity.” 1 Timothy 4:12

To some, we are kids: foolish, reckless, unsteady. 

But that’s not what we are. Don’t let them say that.

Are we sinners? Yes. (But this has nothing to do with age, and we can’t forget that.)

Yes, we are most definitely sinners. I think we’ll be hard pressed to find anyone who is not. But do you know what else we are? We are example-setters. 

Young ones—you are called to this, and you must not let yourself be characterized by anything less. We are to set an example for all those who follow Jesus—whether young or old. The way we talk, the way we act, the way we treat one another, the way we follow Jesus, the way we guard against anything that dishonors God—we do these things in our youth, and if we are faithful, we will still be doing them as the skin around our eyes begins to crinkle and our joints begin to creak.

We will not neglect the gifts we have (1 Timothy 4:14), but instead will practice them, immerse ourselves in them (v. 15), keeping a close watch on ourselves and on the scriptures (v. 16), ready to show ourselves approved (2 Timothy 2:15).

Young ones—if you write, write for the glory of God no matter who prefers that you would shut up. If you speak, speak for the glory of God no matter who prefers your silence. You are not too young to do these things—not if you are seeking the Lord’s wisdom rather than your own.

Does Jesus’ blood not cover the sins of youth as well as the sins of the elderly? Does God’s voice not speak just as loudly to young ears as to the ears of the old? Does the Holy Spirit not dwell just as fully inside young hearts as in the hearts of the old?

God has always had a soft spot for youth: He told the little children to come, said that the kingdom of heaven belonged to them. He built his church and changed the world with a troupe of men who were probably in their twenties. He sent his son through the womb of a teenage mother, and he saved the world through the death and resurrection of 33-year-old Jesus.

Young ones—do not let anyone look down on you because you are young. You ARE the church, not just attenders of the church. People say you are the next generation, but you are THIS generation. Your time is now, not later. Your kind fills the scriptures, and Jesus fills your hearts. You are called to set an example, and this is fully within your God-given capability. Show us how to live for Him. We need you.

For the Birds

Hi, Birds.

We need to talk. I have thought for years that I was most afraid of heights and Anne Frank and Nazis and snakes and Amelia Earhart and the people that run carnival rides. But that's because I had never seen that many of you up close. In most of our encounters, you’ve just been sort of flying around tweeting (how tech-savvy!) and being red or whatever, and that was charming and pleasant, and plus you helped wring out Cinderella’s big yellow sponge and sat on Snow White’s finger to sing a duet, and that’s all quite lovely. Yay, birds! Aren’t you quaint!

Except—NO YOU AREN’T. You have transformed from your flittering cartoonish cuteness into feathered fiends who want to peck out my eyes. I KNOW YOU WANT TO PECK OUT MY EYES!!

Let’s start with the worst of you: the ostrich, obviously. You are supposed to be cute, quirky, silly creatures, but the stuffed animals at Anthropologie have grievously mislead us. This summer we decided to do a cute thing and go to a local safari park, and the lady at the entrance is very casual like, "Here are your buckets of feed and keep the windows rolled up or the ostriches will peck the babies and have fun," and we're like, "Haha, okay! What an adorable activity!" and then we drive in and suddenly everywhere there are OSTRICHES, and they are looking at me right in the face, and in their eyes I see SATAN HIMSELF. Because, seriously birds, ostriches have RED EYES, and this is not okay. THEY ARE RED. RED!!!!!!!!! And they looked at me with wide open beaks and unblinking red eyes, and I can tell that the lady was not joking around about them pecking babies and also that they DEFINITELY want to suck my soul out of my body like in Hocus Pocus. This is when I realized: Ostriches are way, way, way worse than carnies. Obviously, I cried/hyperventilated/screamed the entire time while my husband laughed because probably an ostrich grabbed his soul, and it made him forget how to act like a kind human. Or something.

And then on our way to the beach a month ago, we stopped at a quaint petting zoo to let our 2.5-year-old daughter pet the llama and wave to the goat, and then suddenly my brain siren goes off: ALERT ALERT, THIS IS NO LONGER QUAINT! I REPEAT, NO LONGER QUAINT. Yeah, there’s an ostrich on the scene, and I witness him PECK ANOTHER LITTLE GIRL RIGHT ON THE ARM, and her mom didn’t even care. The little girl cried, the mom shrugged, and I nearly threw up. Then a parrot says, “Goodbye now!” and I’m like NOT NOW PARROT ARE YOU INSANE and BYE GIRL, BYE. We haul babies out of there, and I eat like 600 Oreos to recover. 

Oh, but birds, you did not stop with the ostriches and that horrible parrot. Two days ago I thought I was being neurotic (it happens) because I kept hearing a strange pecking sound. I brush it off, like “hey Caroline, it’s fine. You are having ostrich PTSD.” Then I go into our bedroom, and there you are BIRDS, pecking on the bedroom window like you need to get in and take my soul. I do the little wiggle dance that I do when I’m feeling creepy-crawly, and I shut the door and forbid anyone from going in the master bedroom. Oh, but you are determined, birds. You start pecking on the front room window, and when my husband comes home, he says there’s one of you pecking on the van window. HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND, BIRDS?! The van?! The love of my life?! Leave Jean Claude Van Damme alone!

Then he tells me something else: There’s a weird purple goo all over the driver’s window. It’s a pretty color, and it reminds me that at one point in my life I cared about and could articulate the difference between magenta and fuchsia. I dwell on this for a second and then notice the same purple goo on the front window. And the bedroom window. What kind of devil bird magic is this?! “ALFRED HITCHCOCK, I KNOW YOU ARE AROUND HERE SOMEWHERE,” I shout to no one, but I can’t find him. I do the creepy-crawly wiggle dance and try to focus on something else, like cookies. You are driving me to eat a lot of cookies, birds.

The babies and the cookies and I head back to the playroom to read books and play with blocks and forget about birds and whatnot. I look up and spot a tiny purple dot on the playroom window. “Is that…?” I start to say, and then BAM!—a little bird head pops up into the window and starts to peck. I scream, and it makes a baby cry. THANKS A LOT, BIRDS.

And now, birds, right this very second, you are zooming around my yard like you are possessed by tiny bird demons. You are totally freaking out and one of you is ping-ponging his weird bird bod back and forth in the carport and RUINING MY LIFE.

What is happening? My house has an adorable yellow door and a yard gnome, and you are turning all of it into a horror movie. We are like the first scene of Law & Order: Birds Edition over here, where life is happy and normal until there’s some purple goo and suddenly everything becomes dark and terrifying. PLUS I KEEP TYPING IN ALL CAPS AND USING A ZILLION EXCLAMATION POINTS AND THIS IS YOUR FAULT!!!!!!!

You are the absolute worst.