Birds that weave and tailor - Part III

My Grandpa Edwin lived like a weaver or tailor bird: quiet, faithful, instinctively anchored in love. 

When I was nine on a trip to India, I became obsessed with a tailor bird nest near our old house and boldly announced I’d catch the mother and bring her to Canada to my Grandparents. Grandpa didn’t mock me or crush the wonder. He simply reminded me, gently but firmly, that the bird had a God-given task: to stay and incubate her eggs.

The next day Grandpa Edwin staged a whole “bird-catching” moment—white car, cardboard box, fridge room, dramatic suspense. Inside wasn’t a real bird at all, but a little decorative one with eggs, arranged like a nest. In one gentle act he protected the living creature’s calling and protected a child’s imagination. That was Grandpa’s gift: he met a need without harm, built joy without stealing what was sacred, and showed me what Micah calls the quiet way of God.

Now that I’m walking through TBI and PCS recovery, I understand that kind of mercy more deeply. I cannot “steal” my old capacity back by force—speed, stamina, clarity—like I can simply drag the past into the present. My brain has a holy task right now: healing, recalibrating, stitching itself back together.  Patience is not passivity—it is protection for what is still becoming steady.

Grandpa Edwin can serve as an example to all of us. He didn’t love impulsively or loudly; he loved faithfully. He noticed needs before they were announced, built stability without spectacle, and made room for life—protecting what was fragile while still honoring wonder.  The Hymn “My Song Is Love Unknown” is a hymn that carries the quiet weight of faithful love that gives itself without noise. That’s the kind of love Grandpa reflected, and the kind of love God needs to weaving into us: anchored, patient, and strong enough to hold.