Mourning doves
The correct name, contrary to my personal understanding prior to today, is “mourning dove”.
I, in all of my blissful ignorance, thought it was morning. It is not. It is mourning, an ode to the bird’s distinct, somber sigh of a call, a call that imitates a lament.
Times feel particularly lament-full right now. For one, today is a day of remembrance, trauma, and heartbreak for our entire country: right and left, old and young, believers and non-believers, natives and newcomers. Unironically, violence continues to swirl around us. Outside of that, I’m personally grieving some losses: loss of childhood, loss of certainty in the future (God keeps refreshing the where will I be next tab), loss of career satisfaction (as well as the what will I do next tab), and loss of loved ones.
But in the mourning, I’ve noticed something. There are very many well-displayed doves.
One of my favorite biblical motifs, from the time I was very young, is the dove. It is commonly portrayed as a bearer of peace, a restorer of hope, and a symbol of purity. It, alongside the gloriously given rainbow, appears to Noah as the flood dissolves and seems to say: “all will be well in time.”
I am believing, with all of my might, in that. And in my capture and relishing of the first dove, I’ve loosened the scales of ungratefulness and dismay from my eyes, learning to see more doves. Peace covering the past, yes, and hope for the future, of course, but also good right here in our midst.
Music touches me very deeply. If you know me you are aware of this. Music soundtracks the moments of greatest ecstasy (maybe flying over Midtown with Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” in my headphones, or the entire congregation of my home church singing “Behold Him” as a blissful benediction), and the most trying valleys (Summer, Highland Falls as I contemplate where I’m going and “Singin’ in the Rain” to belong to a moment where I forget I’m growing up).
I’ve had so many musical doves lately. “Born Free” by Andy Williams, “Getting Better” by the Beatles, “Dance With Me” by the Orleans, “Photographs and Memories” by the beloved Jim Croce… just to name a few. Shimmery beacons of hope, sun-kissed fractals of “it’s all held in my [God’s] hands!”
I’m re-reading the Harry Potter series. I don’t have to grow old, I realize, not really. I can take the things that touch me, ground me, and remind me it’s not all that serious and bring them along. A dove. Hope for the moments to come when something new to love falls in my lap.
Some other doves among the mourning: “Rear Window”, homemade pumpkin muffins, a girls trip with my mom on the horizon, budding friendships, my kid neighbor that waters the plants outside every morning, Church gatherings, crispy morning walks, just the right amount of creamer, new playlists, watching movies in my pajamas, school back in session, AMC, fresh dahlias from the farmer’s market, weekly traditions, knowing all the words to my new favorite John Mayer song, friends that are quick to call you back, and the everlasting truth that God is chasing after me.
On that last note, I’m so thankful to pray that prayer, often. To with everything I have in me, say, “thank you for always drawing me back to you”.
“Thank you for reminding me, as many times as I need it, that you hear all of my prayers.”
“Thank you for giving me glimpses of the glory of eternity to brighten the gloomier days on earth.”
“Thank you for loving me more deeply and more wholly than any of us, in our flesh, could.”
“Thank you for directing my paths, ordaining my steps, and providing abundantly for me even when absolutely none of it makes sense right now”
“Thank you for every dove.”
I hope that, in whatever way and however much you are hurting, you can find the courage to reach up and grab hold of that everlasting hope. I promise that, once you do the hard part of just looking up, you’ll find the sky is brimming with glory.
From one heartbroken (and held) soul to another,
Mary Grace Rowell