The night owl thought about staying sober minded:

yet his mind wandered and wondered:

_ They need a special needs ministry. They need a handyman ministry. They need a discipleship ministry. They need a relationship ministry. They need an it’s okay to be broken ministry. They need you, you damn owl, and what are you doing weeping! Your sins are forgiven you! Rise, and take up your bed! Walk! _

The owl scowled at the tears running down his face. The tears were fire on his feathery cheeks, but cold as ice in contrast to the fiery love of his God in his heart.

Painfully enough, that contrast only produced more tears. He knew that his shame had been taken by grace; that his sorrow should be made to joy, and joy each and every new day. Yet, the aging owl yet wept. He wept for the things he knew were right; the things he didn’t do. He wept for his many observations that night: how owls should be grateful they can see through the dark, how they should be grateful they can fly and hunt, how they should be grateful for even their form — as all were good gifts from their good creator. Yet the foolish, and ever wise owl thought to himself in the dark:

_ I prayed over my son with these foreign tears ruling the hard land of my face. Hasn’t the world warned me against weeping? Why does it feel so right to cry to my God? I heard from the scholarly owls that my insights are not well known; I take no credit for them. Solomon was the Lord. The child was Christ. The law was the law. The Father was willing to divide His Son, and so He did — for us. Why is the taste so bitter and cruel and so sweet and true? Aren’t there an owl out there who sees the depths of His Father’s love? _

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The owls tears ran ever fiercer down his face. He swept them away, long enough to spot a mouse of the field. Swooping in he gave his thanks. The way he knew he ought to. The way his streaming tears told him to do.