A Little Red Surprise
By Erin Ahnfeldt
There’s something striking about the red of a cardinal. The color reaches out and grabs our attention—kind of like God’s love.
That idea was first introduced to me when I was a junior at Wheaton College. At a Wednesday evening chapel service, a guest speaker explained how important it is for us to understand how much God loves us. The problem is, he said, we struggle to believe it’s true. Then he paused, folded his arms against his chest, and etched a picture into my mind that has stuck with me ever since.
“A friend of mine once told me,” he said, “that every time he sees a cardinal, he pictures Jesus speaking his name and then saying the words ‘I love you.’” I don’t remember much more of the sermon, but that changed the way I saw cardinals.
There’s one problem.
I live in Colorado.
We have pretty hummingbirds and loud magpies, but basically no cardinals. I don’t get to see them on hikes or in my backyard because, for whatever reason, they don’t like to venture this far north. But despite living in a cardinal-less state, they still bring me joy. Every time I come across a picture of a cardinal in a book, a magazine or on a Christmas tree, I remember the advice of that guest speaker.
Every time I come across a picture of a cardinal in a book,
a magazine or on a Christmas tree, I remember the advice of that guest speaker.
A SPECIAL PLACE
A few years ago—thirty years after that chapel message—I was on a bus with a couple hundred teenagers. We were headed to Young Life camp, and I prayed a silent prayer for help. Kids were slapping high fives, texting friends, and checking snapchat accounts. To them, the bus was their transport into adventure. To me, it felt like a C-130 airplane, and I was a paratrooper headed to war.
What was a 50-year-old man doing on a bus headed for camp? Being a teacher, I could handle teenagers in a classroom, but spending twenty-four hours a day together for a week terrified me. I felt old.
My wife Deb and daughter Joy stood outside waving goodbye under an umbrella. I looked at them, their faces shining in the streetlight and sparkling rain, and longed to go home with them. They knew me. They were my safe place, but God wasn’t calling me into comfort. I knew that and clung to the truth He was with me.
When we arrived at camp, all “my” high school guys threw their bags in our cabin and headed for the pool. All except Nemiah. He was a sophomore in my English class, a huge football player with arms like tree stumps.
He walked over to the window next to his bed and stared at the lake. His smile can light up a room, and I saw it when he looked at me.
“Mr. Ahnfeldt,” he said. “I don’t know. This just feels so right.”
Pausing, he tried to gather his thoughts. “There’s something special about this place, something deep.” I watched him walk from window to window. He was overwhelmed in a much better way than I was, swimming in wonder. Then, he was gone. As the fan hummed, I leaned back in my chair, looked up at the ceiling and, like Nemiah, I smiled.
AN UNLIKELY SIGHT
The next morning, I dropped out of my bunkbed as quietly as possible and snuck out the door to pray. Being old at least meant I didn’t need as much sleep as the teenagers. I walked down the cement steps outside and started walking, enjoying the quiet.
“Thank you, Lord, for getting us here safely,” I whispered, following the sidewalk.
The view of the lake caught me by surprise, and I stared at it. Morning sunlight danced across it, and the trees around it were thick and green. Still going through a list of prayers in my head, I kept walking. After a few more steps, I turned my head away from the lake, back in the direction I was going. And then I froze. Something red caught my eye. It looked fake. Right there in front of me, standing on a yellow parking lot post was the brightest red cardinal I’d ever seen. He stayed perched there singing, one high-pitched chirp after another.
Are you kidding me? I wondered. After leaving my family the day before and feeling so overwhelmed, the timing of that bird could not have been more perfect.
The chapel message—a lesson from a different season entirely in my life—came back to me, and in those high-pitched chirps I heard something else. I heard I was loved. So loved, in fact, that the Author of every page of my life put a cardinal right in the middle of my story.
I heard I was loved.
So loved, in fact, that the Author of every page of my life put a cardinal right in the middle of my story.
AN INTENTIONAL STORY
That week turned out to be as beautiful as it started. There were incredible talks with the guys, wild rides behind motorboats, and under a bright orange harvest moon, Nemiah decided to follow Jesus.
Being an English teacher, I’m always talking about authors and their stories, which is why God’s creativity fills me with so much wonder. Like the oranges and pinks in that Harvest Moon, He delights in bringing beauty out of our messy stories. And He uses all the tools a good author would use—characters, conflicts, settings, and symbols. Even symbols like cardinals. Getting on that bus headed for camp, I felt old, but the same God writing my story in my college years used a symbol from way back then to speak to me many chapters later. Seasons will bring scary changes, but there’s comfort in seeing God weave symbols into my life as reminders that He never changes; He’s right there with me, and thankfully, He’s the One holding the pen.
About Erin
Erin Ahnfeldt has the great privilege of discussing authors and stories with 140 teenagers in his high school English classes. He’s also a storyteller who loves speaking and writing about the evidence of God’s creative handiwork in the pages of our lives.
Currently living in Colorado Springs, he’s been married to Deborah for 26 years and is the father of Hope, David and Joy. Along with being a Christian in a public high school, he volunteers with Young Life and watches in awe as God brings life to broken, hurting kids.
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You can visit Erin’s website at erinahnfeldt.com