Several weeks ago, a friend was sharing about a book she’d been reading and describing the gorgeous cover in great detail: the layered mountains, the deep blue sky, and a spectacular eagle soaring over the peaks. Just as she mentioned the soaring eagle, I randomly glanced out our living room window, only to witness a bald eagle flying by at that exact moment!
I saw him again the following day while maneuvering up our icy driveway (for some reason, I assumed it to be the same bird and male). On the third day, a Golden Eagle flew over our house. Two or three days later, I was recounting the uncanny story to a different friend—how an eagle flew by at the exact moment my friend mentioned it—and again, that very second, I lifted my eyes and saw the Bald Eagle. For the next few hours, I watched, spellbound, as not one but two white-headed eagles flew back and forth in the valley below our mountain, presumedly gathering materials for their nearby nest.
Strangely, despite my solid week of eagle sightings, I haven’t seen a single one since.
For whatever reason, I’ve been contemplating those eagle sightings lately, all clumped together like gold nuggets in a pot at the end of a rainbow. Many cultures confidently predict the meaning of such chance encounters—a call to rebirth, courage, or perhaps even flight. But I wonder: is an eagle totem just as illusory as the mythical pot of gold? An attempt to quell man’s never-ending search for meaning? A fanciful superstition intended to incite hope?
Still, I find myself tentatively yearning for a “sign” from the universe along with a clear, undeniable interpretation. Certainly, so many eagle sightings mean something! Don’t they? I long to believe that they must.
If I’m terrifyingly vulnerable, what I crave knowing deep down beyond the shadow of a doubt, is that my unspectacular midlife matters, that I am not fading away into oblivion, that I am special, chosen, visible to The Invisible…ultimately, deeply loved by the Beloved.
I doubt whether even a Bald Eagle can carry a message so weighty. Despite its keen eyes, I feel confident I’ve remained undetected, opaque, my innermost parts still unseen.
*
Sitting in my office this morning, shortly past 4 a.m., my coffee sits on the table, untouched alongside the eagle book, Flying over the Abyss—a gift from my friend. I stare out my window into pitch blackness, unmotivated to read, sleep still lingering in my eyes, when suddenly, a daydream emerges like the ones I once had as a young schoolgirl: there, at my basement window, a magnificent eagle appears, tapping on the glass with its beak. The little girl in me doesn’t question whether this winged creature is a talisman—her faith and imagination are still intact and unfettered—she knows and believes this eagle has been sent as a courier with a message, or perhaps, a divine gift.
No longer sure if I’m imagining with my little girl mind or my adult one, I envision cracking my window wide enough for an arm and attempting to stroke the massive bird’s feathers to test whether it’s friendly. Surprisingly, I determine the eagle to be an amicable messenger even though it’s dug its beak into my forearm and gauged out a chunk of my flesh. Flying away, it leaves me with a dripping, bloody hole—undeniable proof of my aviary encounter. I imagine rushing into my husband’s office and excitedly exclaiming: Look! I was visited by an eagle! He marked me with this wound!
Taking my first sip of coffee, I laugh at myself and shake off my embarrassing romanticizing. Sometimes, I can be so ridiculous!
But after a few moments, my amateur Jungian brain kicks in, and I begin interrogating the shadows cast by my daydream: Why did this conjured eagle leave me with a wound, a future scar, instead of, say, a precious feather or an “olive branch” of sorts? Furthermore, why didn’t I mind? Why was I so delighted to be painfully punctured, to run and show my mutilated flesh to my husband? Why did I still consider this eagle a friend over foe?
In a flash, deep truths, my shadow self, and childish imaginings collide, and I suddenly realize what I constantly seem to forget: the wound IS the gift.
Staring at my right hand, I study my miniature scars—claw marks left by my autistic son when he was still in a booster seat. Although faint, there are so many of them that they could almost pass for crepey wrinkles or translucent, tissue-papery burns. In reality, they are carved memories from the many times I wrapped Grayson’s t-shirt around my fist to keep him from jumping from a moving vehicle; his rage was so intense that dying seemed a better alternative than living in his anguished, toddler body.
Despite the ache that rumbles upon remembering, I realize these scars are precious. Like Dermatographia, a skin writing disease, my scars are my only tattoos; they tell my story more effectively than words. I recall the excruciating overwhelm, the sickening numbness, the shell of the woman I once was. And yet…I cannot recall these feelings without—in hindsight—simultaneously recalling the light, the grace, and the life lessons and love I desperately both needed and received.
Long ago, I would never have chosen my wounding; I would never have had the strength to say yes. Today, I wouldn’t change a thing; I lovingly cherish each and every scar and soul-wound. In the future, as in my daydream, I hope I will have grown strong enough to bravely hold out my arm and gratefully tolerate the wounding, knowing beyond all doubt that today’s wounds are tomorrow’s beautifully knotty, healed scars.
*
The sun is now cresting. It’s time to finally start reading. I open my eagle book to the blue-ribboned bookmark. “The fact that the Spirit, the other Comforter,” my book reads, “will lead us into all truth, means that He will enable our human nature to bear the fulness of the love of Christ by depicting the image of Christ in our heart. He will wound (italics mine) our heart and all the members of our body with the marks of Christ.”
Movement stirs outside my window, and I lift my eyes, fully expecting to behold another eagle. It’s only a jaybird. The brightening sky remains empty. I don’t feel disappointed, only a little surprised, so surely had I expected to see an eagle. But I no longer feel starved for a winged sign; I bear the reminders in and on my body. I have been seen, marked, and wounded by love. My wounds have served as portals, gaping entry points where light has streamed in. I only need to remember, to be grateful, and to turn the ache into a whispered prayer: Thank you for this wound. Thank you for this gift.
