I watch the Mother Robin sit. All day long, she sits. I find myself deeply admiring her. I find myself respecting this work of sitting on a nest.
I observe how she shields her eggs from the heat of the sun, the driving rain, and from the chill of evening. She uses her body to incubate. As a verb, I realize that incubate essentially means to keep at a suitable temperature for development.
The Mother Robin lives now in a season of incubation–of keeping the environment at a suitable temperature for growing her chicks.
I consider my own season of incubating teens.
I consider the incubation of my spiritual life.
I consider how I create the right conditions for the incubating of creativity.
If I took my cues from the robin, I would know that to incubate for the growth of anything (my children, my marriage, my work, my relationship with Jesus) requires practicing stillness, sensing the atmosphere, making subtle adjustments so nothing falls destructively out of the nest, and surrendering other activities that seem rather bird-like (flying, soaring, singing, perching).
I take the season for what it is. I practice stillness, sensing, subtlety, and surrender.
And one day, everything hatches.