Spoonful of Wisdom: Lessons from My Favorite Birds

This December, my Christmas gift to you isn't wrapped in winter. It's wrapped in Florida sunshine and cotton candy pink feathers. Because the best gifts often come in unexpected packages—and sometimes what we need most in the grey wintery season is a reminder that joy looks ridiculous, and that's exactly the point.

Which brings me to these birds.

I don't know why these are my favorite birds. They're so goofy and awkward looking—somehow I can relate. I see them and I see me.

I mean, look at those legs. No, seriously—LOOK AT THEM. Like God was designing birds one day and got to the roseate spoonbills and thought, "You know what? Let's go full chopstick. Let's make legs so absurdly long that they look like someone attached a bird to a pair of stilts—but not just any bird body, a hilariously pink one. I mean PINK. You-can't-miss-it, stop-you-in-your-tracks, is-that-even-real PINK."

"And God saw that it was good." (Genesis 1)

But God didn't stop with just long legs and a pink body. Have you looked at that bill? I had to do a double take. That spoon-shaped, kitchen-utensil face makes them look like God couldn't decide between a duck and a spatula, so He said "why not both?"

And THEN—then He decided those legs should just dangle there during flight. Landing gear down most of the time. No sleek, tucked-away aerodynamics for the spoonbill. Just pink bird, spatula bill, and two impossibly long legs trailing behind like an afterthought.

"The Lord directs the steps of the godly. He delights in every detail of their lives." (Psalm 37:23)

Every. Detail. Even the absurd ones.

As I sat on the ground with my camera ready to capture my pink subjects, I felt their eyes lock onto me. The veterans with their bright red eyes, the younger ones with eyes still dark—all of them looking at me as if THEY were the ones capturing an image of me. Seeing something I couldn't see yet. Like they were all in on some cosmic joke I desperately needed to understand.

I started watching them more carefully. Heads sweeping side to side through the shallows, those spatula bills sifting for food with surprising grace. There's a rhythm to it, almost a dance. They're not rushing, not frantic, just... present in the work. Moving with purpose and what can only be described as joy. They're carrying sticks bigger than they are, flying back and forth to their nesting island like it's the most natural thing in the world.

And here I am with my camera, worried about settings, composition, lighting, proper editing—all those voices demanding my immediate attention drowning out the gentle whispers of God in the creation directly in front of me.

And the spoonbills? Wait! Are they smiling? They DO look like they're smiling. Something about that preposterous spoon bill, the way it sits there so unapologetically. Like they know EXACTLY how absurd they look. And they're absolutely delighted about it.

Had I traveled all this way from California to Florida just to photograph these birds? Not just any birds. THESE birds. The comically pink ones. Or was I drawn here for the spoonbills to whisper something I needed to hear? Something about being awkward and radiant at the same time. Something about remembering to smile in the good times and the hard times. Something about how God delights in the goofy details just as much as the glorious ones.

As they approached closer, their message became clearer. Not with words—but with those red eyes, that perpetual smile, that complete lack of self-consciousness. The message was uncomfortably direct and hilariously simple:

"Stop taking yourself so seriously. You're supposed to look ridiculous. That's the whole point."

And at that moment, I laughed out loud—not because I heard them speak, but because I finally heard what they'd been showing me all along.

But then the laughter faded and the harder question emerged: okay, so WHAT am I taking so seriously? What's making me forget how to smile?

Oh. THAT'S the image they were capturing. Someone who had forgotten how to smile while she worked.

When did I start taking myself so seriously? When did the whole world forget how to laugh? Everything has become so SERIOUS and HEAVY and CORRECT. But look at what God made: birds that look like flying spatulas with their landing gear down, sporting that funny bill—and somehow looking like they're SMILING while doing work that's anything but glamorous.

How much time have I already wasted on worry? How many moments have I missed because I was too busy being "serious" about my work instead of actually doing it? The spoonbills aren't worried about mastering the perfect technique—they're just present in the work itself. And the psalmist knew something about making the most of our limited time:

"Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom." (Psalm 90:12)

I have recently followed a long-time dream to learn photography, which means I'm older than most and trying to make up for lost time. Sometimes I overwhelm myself with the task in front of me—especially if it feels too big, too late, too much to master. But watching these spoonbills, they seem completely undaunted by the loads they're carrying. Unaware—or maybe just unconcerned—that the stick is bigger than they are.

They just... fly. Landing gear down. Stick hanging out at awkward angles. Looking absolutely silly and absolutely purposeful at the same time.

And then I remember Jesus' words:

"Come to Me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest." (Matthew 11:28)

Wait. Is THIS my lesson?

I don't just want to tell the spoonbill's story. I want their story to be MY story. I want to glide through the air looking dreamy and goofy at the same time—cotton candy pink or deep coral, it doesn't matter. I want to carry oversized sticks without worrying whether I look impressive doing it.

But here's the uncomfortable truth: I am the one weighing myself down. Not the camera. Not the learning curve. Not the "making up for lost time" anxiety.

Me. Just me.

So here's what living their story looks like for me, with the pictures as proof.

The spoonbills aren't worried about whether their stick is too big or their legs are too long or their bills look cartoonish. They're not comparing themselves to the elegant herons or wondering if they started nest-building too late in life.

They're just building. Flying. Smiling while they work.

The young spoonies aren't bragging that they still have feathers on their heads. The older spoonies aren't prancing around showing off their deeper pink color. They join together as a community—flying together, wading together, enjoying growing pinker together. The awkward beginners and the weathered veterans alike, all working side by side.

Nobody's comparing their shade of pink. Nobody's apologizing for their bald head or their still-feathered one. They're too busy carrying building supplies to worry about looking foolish.

And maybe that's the deeper truth I needed to see:

"For we are God's handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do." (Ephesians 2:10)

Handiwork. That's what we are. Not accidents. Not mistakes. Not "too late" or "too awkward" or "too ridiculous." We're God's intentional design—chopstick legs, spatula bills, and all. Created for specific work that He prepared in advance. Work that doesn't require us to be impressive, just willing.

I wish we could all be spoonbills. But I guess God wants me to learn how to smile just the way He made me—chopstick legs, ungainly features, and all.

Still, there's a lot to learn from these goofy pink teachers.

What if we stopped weighing ourselves down with comparison and just... showed up to do the work God put in front of us? What if we flew with our features on full display and called it GOOD?

"A joyful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones." (Proverbs 17:22)

The spoonbills know this. Joy isn't something they wait to feel—it's something they choose while doing unglamorous work with unusual features. It's medicine for a world that's forgotten how to smile.

What are the spoonbills whispering to you?

Maybe it's about your own landing gear, the parts of you that won't tuck away neatly. Maybe it's about the oversized sticks you're carrying. Maybe it's about embracing how you're changing with time.

The spoonbills are still out there. Still flying. Still smiling. Still inviting us to join them.

I think I'm going to accept that invitation.

How about you?