While in Richmond for some family medical appointments, I talked my son into getting up and going for a run along a trail close to where we were staying.  

We negotiated an 8 a.m. departure. It was still drizzling when we parked the car and walked over to the trailhead. 

“You want to run together or do our own thing?” he asked. 

I appreciate that he always asks, even though we both know the answer. 

Much faster than me, he typically targets a pace when he runs. 

Anymore I pray in soft distances.

“Do our own thing,” I replied as always, never wanting to hold him back. 

Over the next couple minutes, I watched the back of his shirt get smaller and smaller until it disappeared into the trail’s twisting curves. 

So I was surprised when, about 10 minutes later, I came upon him again — stopped and holding his phone in front of him. 

“What’s up?” I asked, pausing the podcast in my ears. 

“It’s my favorite bird,” he said. 

I didn’t know he had a favorite bird, let alone …

“Wood thrush,” he answered, before I could ask. 

I realized he was recording, not taking photos. 

“Listen ….” 

His one-word invitation disappeared the static of the world … letting pure signal reach my parched ears. 

And for a good half minute, we stood rapt and enraptured. 

Alive in our tracks.

By a small invisible thrush in a vast forest. 

Singing its natural anthem … over a whispering drizzle as cool and coaxing as brushes on a snare drum.

“He’s going through all his tunes,” Peter said, just as I caught the crispest “Ee-oh-lay” — the trilling, thrilling middle and most recognizable of the three-part hymn ‘common’ (in name only) to the male of the species.

The whole time I was mindful that we were simultaneously inconsequential to the proceedings and possibly the most grateful audience he’ll ever perform for. 

After his last note, I held my breath a couple extra seconds — the same greedy and hopeful feeling I always feel after the last firework — just in case he felt like taking another chorus. 

Exhaling broke the spell.  

And we gathered ourselves … as if after a benediction. 

Peter put his phone away. 

I put my podcast back in my ears. 

He took off in front of me. 

And I watched the back of his shirt get smaller in the distance before disappearing once again in the twists of the trail.

As I followed him at a soft distance, I was still warm from having received something significant … the gift of standing next to my son while listening to his favorite bird singing arias in the rain. 

And I prayed the futile and selfish prayer I sometimes pray after a good sermon  — that I will remember this … and cling to it … when the noisy world comes hard for my heart.