Jenny’s letter 3rd May

Dear Friends,

There are moments in spring when the birds seem to take over completely. Early in the morning, and again as evening settles, their song fills the air—layer upon layer of sound, each voice distinct, yet somehow held together in a kind of joyful harmony. It can feel almost excessive, as though the world itself is singing.

I sometimes wonder whether this is the closest we get, in ordinary life, to the sound of heaven. The Bible speaks of angels praising God, of creation itself joining in worship. And when the birds are in full voice, it is not hard to imagine that their song echoes something deeper—something already going on, just beyond our hearing. Not a performance, but a kind of delight. A reminder that God’s world is alive with praise, whether we notice it or not.

That sense of unseen care and unseen presence was brought home to me rather abruptly this week—quite literally—when I fell over on the lawn.

Picture the scene: I was neatly dressed, everything in place, heading across the grass with purpose and dignity. The gardener was nearby.

And then—without warning—my foot went straight into a hidden hole. There was no graceful recovery. It was a full, unambiguous face plant. For a brief moment, time stood still. Then came the slow realisation: I was on the ground, the gardener had seen everything, and any illusion of composure had entirely vanished. It was, in hindsight, very funny. More importantly, I was completely fine. No twisted ankle, no real harm done—just a bruised ego and a story to tell.

It made me think of those quiet, often unnoticed ways in which we are held. The prophet Zephaniah speaks of God rejoicing over his people with singing, a beautiful and slightly surprising image of a God who delights in us, who is not distant but deeply attentive. And perhaps part of that attentiveness includes the things we never even see—the accidents that don’t quite happen, the missteps that don’t quite turn into injury. We are often very aware of what goes wrong. We are less aware of what might have gone wrong but didn’t.

This Sunday’s Gospel reading, from John 14, is one many of us will recognise from funeral services: “Do not let your hearts be troubled… In my Father’s house are many rooms.” These are words we turn to in times of loss, and rightly so. They speak of hope beyond death, of a place prepared, of a future held securely in God.

But they are not only for the end of life. They are words for now. “Do not let your hearts be troubled.” Not because life is always smooth—we know it isn’t—but because we are not alone within it. The God who sings over his people, the God whose creation bursts into song, the God who waled beside the disciples on the road to Emmaus, is the same God who walks with us through ordinary days, through unexpected stumbles, through everything we face.

So perhaps, as you hear the birds this week, you might take a moment to pause and listen. Not just to the sound itself, but to what it might point towards: a world sustained by praise, a God who delights in his people, and a quiet, steady care that holds us—even when we fall flat on our faces.

Wishing you a peaceful and safe week ahead,