Well, I know you've been wondering.
I ended up taking Winston to a wildlife rehabilitation center. It wasn’t an easy decision, believe me. But over time, he showed no interest in flying or exploring. Instead, he would nestle into my hand, perfectly content to stay with me rather than stretch his wings. As sweet as it was, I started to worry that he wouldn’t be able to adjust to life in the wild, and I imagined the other birds thinking he was... well, a little weirdo. And they wouldn't be wrong.
So I reached out to a local wildlife rehabilitation center. They confirmed what I suspected, Winston had likely bonded with me so deeply that he didn’t realize he was a bird anymore. In his mind, he might’ve thought he was just a tiny feathered person. That theory didn’t seem far off, especially considering how he’d try to crawl up my sleeve every time we were outside.
Thankfully, the center has a very special setup. They actually have an adult bird there, one who has taken on the role of a feathered mentor. This bird is experienced in fostering young ones like Winston, those who’ve been raised a little too close to humans. It even helps feed and teach them how to be proper birds again. Crazy that such a thing exists, but I'm glad it does.
One afternoon I watched a history series that was a four-hour marathon, and there was Winston, perched loyally beside me the entire time. It sounds ridiculous, but it felt like he was watching with me, just the two of us, engrossed in history and time travel from the comfort of the couch.
So, as you can imagine, I may or may not have cried when I left him at the rehabilitation center. He wasn’t just a bird. He was my buddy.
Winston wasn’t with me forever, but he was a blessing. He was a holy interruption, an unexpected pause in the middle of a chaotic stretch. He didn’t solve my problems. He simply reminded me that I wasn’t alone, that life was still beautiful, that even in the pressure, God sees.
God had sent him for a season. A moment.
And this is nothing new. God’s Word is full of brief, divine moments that left eternal marks.
The Women and the Angels: A Resurrection Encounter
The path to the tomb was quiet, save for the soft shuffle of sandals against the earth and the occasional murmur between the two women. Mary Magdalene and the other Mary moved with the slow, steady rhythm of grief, familiar, heavy, and numbing. Their arms were full of burial spices, their hearts full of memories they weren’t ready to let go of.
The sky was just beginning to glow with the faintest traces of morning, a grayish-blue whisper that the sun was on its way. The olive trees stood still, their branches barely stirring, as if even nature was holding its breath.
They hadn’t spoken much since leaving. What was there to say?
Jesus, their teacher, their miracle-worker, the One who had changed everything, was dead.
They had watched it happen. They had stood at the foot of the cross, powerless and weeping, as He breathed His last. Now they came to do the only thing left: to honor Him in death. To care for His body with tender hands, as one final act of love.
But when they reached the tomb, everything changed. The stone wasn’t where it should have been.
It had been rolled away.
Before their minds could even begin to process what this meant, the earth beneath their feet began to tremble. A great shaking. Not just the kind you feel in your bones, but in your very soul.
And then, light. Not sunlight. Not fire. Something brighter. Sharper. A light that seemed to crack the air itself open.
Two men, no, not men. Angels. Dressed in robes so white they seemed woven from lightning. Their faces shone with a brilliance too holy to look at for long. Their presence was overwhelming, terrifying and awe-inspiring all at once.
The women froze. Breath caught. Hands clutched the jars of spices tighter. Eyes wide with fear and wonder. This was not what they came for. This was not what they expected.
I imagine they wanted to fall to their knees. Maybe they did. Or perhaps they stood motionless, heart pounding so loudly it drowned out the world around them.
Did they want to speak? To ask the angels to stay with them? To explain what was happening? Or simply to remain there in that sacred, trembling space where heaven and earth had met?
But the angels didn’t linger. They weren’t sent to soothe or explain. They were sent to announce.
“Why do you look for the living among the dead?”
“He is not here. He has risen.”
Just those words.
And that was enough.
A holy interruption. A divine declaration. A moment that split history in two.
The women didn’t argue. They didn’t ask to stay. They didn’t need to.
Because truth had come crashing through their sorrow, and now there was only one thing left to do:
Go. Tell. Rejoice.
They ran from the tomb, hearts pounding for a different reason now, not from fear, but from hope. From the electricity of joy waking up inside them. Their arms were still full, but not of spices for the dead. Now they carried something far more precious: the news that life had returned. That Jesus had done what He promised.
And the angels? They were gone. Their task was finished.
They had come, spoken, and disappeared.
A fleeting blessing, yes, but one that would echo through all eternity.
The women at the tomb experienced a divine disruption unlike anything the world had ever seen. Heaven broke through their grief with blazing light and a message that changed everything.
He is risen.
While most of us will never stand before an angel wrapped in lightning, it doesn’t mean God has stopped interrupting our lives with His presence. Sometimes those interruptions come with earthquake and glory, and sometimes, they come quietly.
Like a robin hopping around your apartment.
No, Winston wasn’t an angel. He didn’t shine like lightning or speak divine truth. But he was a small, living reminder that God sees us in our weariness. That in the middle of deadline-stressed weeks and anxious thoughts, He can send a tiny, feathered companion to interrupt the spiral, lift our eyes, and remind us to breathe.
The scale of the moment may be different, but the heart of God is the same.
He sends what we need when we need it.
Sometimes it’s a message from an angel.
Sometimes it’s the unexpected gift of caring for something small and vulnerable.
Either way, it’s a holy interruption. And it’s always love.
When the Blessing Doesn’t Stay
The angels didn’t stay.
They didn’t walk the women home. They didn’t answer all their questions. They didn’t linger in the garden a moment longer. Their appearance was sudden, their message brief, and their departure just as swift.
But the impact? Eternal.
The truth they spoke wasn’t meant to comfort the women into staying, it was meant to move them. To send them out with joy and purpose.
And this is something we can so easily miss: the women had come to the tomb with a plan.
Their purpose that morning was grief. They were bringing burial spices to tend to a broken body. Their day was wrapped in sorrow and ritual, a sacred act of mourning for the One they had loved and lost.
But God interrupted them and their plans.
He didn’t erase their grief, but He redefined their mission. In one radiant moment, their role shifted from mourners to messengers. The interruption changed everything, not because the world around them suddenly got easier, but because God did something new in the middle of their sorrow.
“Why do you look for the living among the dead?
He is not here. He has risen.”
— Luke 24:5–6
And that’s what holy interruptions do.
They don’t always take away the pain or the pressure. But they do change how we walk forward. They turn our eyes in a different direction. They call us into a new posture, one of movement, hope, and purpose.
“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens.”
— Ecclesiastes 3:1 (NIV)
Some blessings are for a moment, not a lifetime. But when God sends them, they leave us different. Redirected. Renewed.
The Day Will Come When We Won’t Have to Let Go
The women at the tomb didn’t get to stay in that shining moment. The angels disappeared. Jesus would ascend. The awe, the wonder, the joy—it was real, but it was also temporary, at least on this side of eternity.
But can you imagine how many times they must have told that story?
How often Mary Magdalene must have recounted the way the stone had been rolled away…
How the angel’s voice sounded like thunder wrapped in love…
How Jesus Himself stood before her, alive, speaking her name?
They didn’t just witness a miracle. They witnessed the miracle, the resurrection. The greatest moment in the history of the world. And they carried that story like fire in their bones for the rest of their lives.
Still, even the greatest miracle ever to happen on Earth did not allow them to remain in Jesus’ physical presence forever. Not yet.
They had to let go.
But here’s the truth that transforms that ache:
What was temporary on Earth will be permanent in heaven.
The angels were a fleeting blessing. The risen Christ walked with them only a little while longer. But every holy interruption that drew them closer to Him, every glimpse of glory, they were previews of a forever promise.
“And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying,
‘Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them.
They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God.
He will wipe every tear from their eyes.
There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain,
for the old order of things has passed away.”
— Revelation 21:3–4 (NIV)
Have you ever thought about that?
That every joy, every peaceful moment that draws you closer to God, every small reflection of His presence, will be made permanent in heaven?
The laughter, the peace, the love, and the beauty we only get glimpses of now will be the full atmosphere of eternity. What an incredible God we serve.
He gives us blessings that interrupt our darkness, redirect our days, and carry us through. Then He promises: One day, you won’t have to let go. One day, every good and perfect gift will remain.
Until that day, we give thanks for the holy moments.
We hold them gently.
And we lift our eyes to the day they will never end.
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