We spent this past weekend at Jackson Meadows reservoir where our family has a cabin. For forty-five years we have come to this mountain lake to celebrate the 4th of July. No fireworks. But lots of freedom. To roam the deep woods. To swim the cold lake. To bask in the sunny meadow. And to bird watch.

Not that I bird watch much. Mostly, I boy watch. Dirty, cabin kids in muddy water shoes dashing down to the lake to hunt for snakes and crawfish. The latter we cook on our camp stove along with rainbow trout. I enjoy the rainbows, but refuse to touch the crawfish, which is fine with the boys. More mudbug meat for them. This cabin life not only feeds my heart, it feeds my soul. Some deep down part of me tied to this place in the pines my dad and grandpa built the year I was born. This Fourth we didn’t cook any crawfish, the two photos below are from Father’s Day weekend, but my son-in-law’s dad caught the biggest rainbow trout I’ve ever seen. And a little bird taught me a lesson I won’t soon forget.

The learning occurred as I settled into a quiet spot on our cabin deck that overlooks the lake while Cruz put his daddy down for a nap in the afternoons. From the deck, I could kind of keep an eye on the older boys at the water while enjoying my Kindle. There in my lawn chair, with the wind singing through the pines, the little bird found me.

A whisper of yellow was the first thing I noticed about him. On day one, he wasn’t much more than a golden blur flashing from tree to tree. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught him darting in a circle around the deck where I sat reading. The next morning, I heard him singing.

“There is a yellow songbird in the pines,” I said to my dad. “Yesterday he kept flying around me incognito. He’s a shy little guy, but he sure sings pretty, and I think he likes me.”

“Maybe it’s a grosbeak,” said Dad who knows birds. “Was it a large yellow finch with black wings?”

“I think this one has a red head,” I offered. “With black wings and tail.” (When we returned home, I googled him. He’s actually a Western Tanager.)

The second afternoon, I watched for him. Sure enough, he appeared in a streak of yellow. The wind that usually rises in the afternoon in these mountains proved a gentle breeze swishing the pines. The little bird rested on a nearby branch long enough for me to get a good look at him. And him at me. Instead of being the watcher, I felt watched. I decided this bird had a crush on me. When Cruz’s nap time ended, and several brothers returned from the lake with a water snake, the little bird vanished.

The following afternoon, I was ready for my bird buddy. In the lawn chair, I pretended to read my Kindle when he appeared, but my attention arrowed to him. After bouncing branch to branch, he flew right up and landed at my feet. He looked up at me for a long moment like I was queen of the forest, which delighted me. Such a pretty little bird wanting me, how winsome. And then it happened, he turned and pecked the ground. Then pecked the ground again and again, eating the crumbs of chips around my chair. When the crumbs disappeared, so did he.

The little bird didn’t really want me, he wanted my leftovers. In that moment, a holy knowledge flooded and humbled me: I do this with God all the time. Approach the Lord for crumbs of grace, scraps of mercy, bits of blessings. It’s not God I’m seeking, it’s the good stuff God generates. Like the little bird, I am shy with the Almighty ~afraid of Him really ~ but hungry. Yet, my hunger most of the time isn’t for God, it’s for what God can give me. Healing for others or myself. Salvation for someone or deliverance from some dark thing. How often I come to God with a knapsack of needs. Rarely, do I come just for love’s sake.

This realization reminds me of our kayak.

We bought this yellow boat last year with the intent of romance. Scott and I would escape out onto the lake, looking into each other’s eyes, bonding and bathing in love and sunshine. Are you laughing yet? I am, not because it’s so cheesy, but because this has proved so impossible. We haven’t been in the kayak together more than once, and when we were, our boys ran along the shore yelling like banshees for us to let them in the boat. I couldn’t take it and made Scott return to land where the boys piled in as I piled out. I haven’t been in the kayak since. This year I didn’t even bother trying to boat with my man. I contented myself watching Scott row boys around the lake. So much for kayak love.

Have you ever felt this way in your relationship with God? You know you’re supposed to be in this grand affair with your Maker, yet, you feel like that little bird gathering God’s leftovers? A genuine walk with God involves so much more than snatching his grace, sneaking up on his mercy, and thieving his goodness. We were made for more. So how do we get there?

The best way I know is to start with honesty. Yep, I’m a little bird. All too often, I’m after the goods. So I pray: God help me seek your face for love’s sake.