Agnes lived alone—though she was rarely ever by herself. She had the birds.
Every morning, she took her coffee black, spooned from a Folgers can. She sat in the same place by the same window, watching the birds eat from the feeder hanging from a hook on her porch. On her lap rested a well-worn Bible. She would hum a hymn in the quiet of the morning—not loud enough to scare the birds, but just enough to break the silence and usher in the sunshine. The woman would pray, slowly bringing her petitions to God and giving thanks.
It was a routine she once shared with her husband. It wasn’t so much the coffee that brought him to the window each morning—it was the birds.
“God has a lot to say about birds,” he used to tell her. “He cares for them. Sure, we feed them, and that’s why they keep coming back, but they’ll eat and live long after we’re gone.”
After he died, the birds became more than a spectacle. They became a reminder—a testimony—that she was not forgotten.
“See the birds,” she heard the Lord whisper. “I see them. And I see you.”
Her days were measured in spoonfuls of coffee and birdseed. As time sped up, she seemed to slow down—so slow that she couldn’t catch up. She tried to hold on, but her fingers, stiff with arthritis, couldn’t grasp anything for long.
Her daughter had moved away—not out of spite, but she was gone just the same. She called often, then occasionally, then seldom. Agnes told herself it was because she was busy. Still, she kept the guest room clean and ready. Just in case.
To her surprise, the phone rang one day. She had considered disconnecting it—it never rang, and she had no one to call. But every month, she paid the bill. Just in case.
“Hello?” she answered, a hint of apprehension in her voice.
“Hi, Mom. It’s me,” came the voice on the other end.
They spent a few minutes catching up. But Agnes sensed this wasn’t just a call for small talk.
“Listen, Mom… I need Adam to stay with you for the summer. He’s a good kid, but he’s gotten into some trouble. He needs to get away for a while.”
Agnes held the phone with one hand and placed the other over her heart. “Of course he can stay. I’ll get the guest room ready.”
Several days later, they arrived. Adam was tall, with messy hair, wrinkled clothes, and a kind of awkwardness. Her daughter didn’t stay long, just long enough to help carry in his bags and settle him in.
“Thanks, Mom.” A kiss on the cheek, and she was gone.
It had been years since the house felt the breath of another person besides Agnes. She and Adam talked a little—about the drive, school, the character on his T-shirt. He kept his head down and spoke barely above a whisper. She didn’t press him. There would be all summer for talking.
One morning, he came and sat beside her at the window. Steam rose from her coffee cup, and the Bible rested in her lap.
“Why do you watch the birds every morning?” he asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.
“Your grandfather and I used to do this every day. You would have loved him.” She paused. “It also reminds me.”
She didn’t look at him as she spoke. She watched. She waited. She hoped he’d ask the question.
He looked at her—really looked. At the cracks of age on her face and hands. Signs of time passed—time he would never get back with her.
“What does it remind you of?” he finally asked.
A smile began in the corner of her mouth. “It reminds me that God sees me. Those birds are so small, yet God sees them. He sees everything—even the small things.”
He didn’t say anything, but from that day forward, he joined her every morning to watch the birds.
On the last night of summer, a thunderstorm rolled in. Adam was supposed to leave the next day, but his mother couldn’t come—roads were closed.
He walked into the living room, excited for one more morning at the window. One more day to talk with his grandmother.
She wasn’t there.
“Grandma?” he called.
“I’m out here, Adam!” her voice called back from the backyard.
He rushed outside and gasped when he saw her. The bird feeder lay in pieces on the ground, and Agnes was kneeling, picking it up.
“Let me get that,” he said, crouching beside her.
She stood and dusted herself off. She could see he was upset.
“It’s okay,” she said. “We’ll make another feeder.”
“But what will the birds do until then?”
She smiled and reached out her hand to help him up. “Come inside. I want to show you something.”
The worn Bible sat in her chair, its pages bent and its spine torn—signs of faithfulness. She picked it up and turned the pages gently.
“Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?” she read, her voice trembling.
“I think I get it now,” he said.
“You do?” She closed the Bible, holding her place with her palm.
“God will feed the birds while they wait for a new feeder. I’m not worried about the birds anymore.” He looked out the window, as if expecting to see God feeding them Himself.
“That’s very true,” she said softly.
Then he turned back to her. “But… God sees me, doesn’t He?”
“He sure does, Adam.” Her eyes filled, and a tear dropped onto the Bible—one of many over the years.
His mother arrived the next day—and this time, she stayed longer. Agnes scooped coffee from the Folgers can and poured her a cup. They talked while Adam worked on building a new feeder.
When it was time to leave, Adam gave her a long hug. She held on, her arthritic hands gripping time for just a moment longer.
“I want you to have this,” she said, handing him the Bible. “It was your grandfather’s. He read it every morning while watching the birds. He’d want you to have it.”
After they left, she returned to the window—coffee in hand—and watched the birds eat from the new feeder.
“He cared for the birds,” she said aloud. “He cared for us.”
Agnes lived alone—though she was rarely ever alone.
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