One day, I overslept and missed the time for early morning prayer.
By the time I arrived, half of the service was already over.
The congregation, worried that we might have been in a car accident, greeted me with concern.
After the service, feeling sorry toward both God and the congregation, I sat quietly.
Then, an elderly deaconess came to me and said softly,
“Ma’am, if you trust only your clock, you might make a mistake.
I never rely on the clock when I rise for dawn prayer—
I wake up when the birds start singing. Birds never make mistakes!”
“Oh really?” I laughed. “Then please send those birds to the parsonage!”

A few days later, I found some small twigs scattered in my children’s upstairs room.
I swept them away without thinking, but soon more appeared in the same spot.
Puzzled, I looked around and found a pile of leaves and twigs beneath the air conditioner on the window frame.
It turned out that birds were busily building their nest there.

Watching them at work filled me with joy.
I thought to myself that the old deaconess must have prayed to God
to send these birds to our home.
I ran to tell my husband and children the wonderful news.
How delightful it was to share a house with such quick and beautiful creatures—
birds that fluttered their wings and took flight at the slightest movement!
We had no formal agreement between us,
yet I knew they would awaken the dawn and lull the night to sleep
with their clear and cheerful voices.

I taped a strip of clear Scotch tape between the window frame
to make a little partition,
and from there, I secretly watched them build their nest.
So diligent and meticulous they were—
in no time, a neat, lovely nest appeared.
Before long, I saw four tiny brown-speckled eggs lying within.

A few days later, I heard rustling and peeked inside.
Four hatchlings, eyes still closed, stretched open their mouths,
begging for food from their mother.
When the mother fed them, the father circled from afar, standing guard.
After she finished, they switched roles—
the father returned to inspect the nest,
then flew away again in search of more food.

One day, I discovered that one of the chicks had died.
I didn’t know why, but I felt a strange sense of guilt—
as though I had sinned by looking too closely into their sacred world.
I couldn’t help but feel the pain of life and death intertwined in that tiny nest.
Still, I found myself watching again, wondering how much the little ones had grown.

Through the winter, the nest remained empty and silent.
Looking at it, I imagined the birds soaring southward
over wide forests,
and in my heart, I too became a bird,
flying far, far away with them.

Yet when spring returned, so did they.
Their return brought new life to the parsonage garden—
the trees burst into leaves,
the children resumed their ball games,
and the air filled once again with joyful noise.
Now the grown birds often revisited the nest,
fluttering and chirping so busily that it sometimes grew noisy,
but living together brought indescribable happiness.

I once thought birds had only one kind of song,
but I have learned to recognize their different tones—
the song of peace,
the cry of alarm when a squirrel appears,
the coaxing call to go find food together.
Their voices filled the parsonage from morning till dusk.

How beautiful is the bond between birds and humans—
two beings meant to coexist,
each needing the other.
The roses of June climb over the wall
and release their fragrance more sweetly
because there are birds to sing among them.
They open the windows of our closed hearts,
lift the wings of our despairing spirits,
and draw ripples across the still lake of the soul.
Through their fragile songs,
they urge weary hearts to rise toward heaven once again.

Too small to be noticed unless they sing,
birds are loved precisely because they sing.
And through them, the Lord speaks:
“Be free like the birds,
sing like the birds,
move swiftly like the birds,
and come to Me with a heart as pure as theirs.”

Even now, I can still hear that deaconess’s gentle voice saying,
“Birds never make mistakes.”
And I imagine her waking at dawn,
listening once more to the sound of their song.