It had already been quite a weekend in Boston, Georgia—not the Boston of Red Sox fame, but the tiny Southern town where my husband, Mike, was born and raised. Here, the population sign proudly displays 1,218 souls, and you won't find a single traffic light. We'd come for the Annual Boston Mini-Marathon, but what unfolded was pure small-town magic. On Friday evening, nearly fifty family members materialized as if summoned by the crisp October air, gathering for an impromptu get-together that had all the spontaneity of a summer rain and the cozy embrace of a lifetime of shared stories.
Well into that first night, one of the neighbors' turkeys made a surprise entrance, strutting right into the middle of things as if he'd been invited. Before long, he was mingling around like any other guest, weaving between lawn chairs and picnic blankets, adding his own peculiar charm to the festivities. It was a perfect touch to an evening that already felt like something out of a story.
Saturday morning brought the main event. There we were, Mike, his daughter, and I, decked out in our Minecraft costumes—masks, capes, and all—adding a bit of pixelated whimsy to the family portrait as we joined the 5K walk portion of the marathon festivities. Between the serious runners pursuing their personal bests in the half-marathon and our costumed crew bringing up the rear of the 5K, the event truly had room for everyone.
As Saturday evening drifted in, three generations gathered around the fire for a proper wiener roast, some fresh from running the marathon, others still chuckling about our pixelated procession through town, painting a picture of what truly matters. The laughter and stories flowed as freely as the beer, with the kind of ease that only comes from being with people who knew you back when.
After a weekend like that, where every heartbeat felt like a celebration of life’s simplest pleasures, stepping into the quiet of Sunday service felt like the perfect conclusion. There I was, settling into the comforting embrace of a church pew, letting the pastor’s words and the welcoming faces wash over me. Earlier, we’d all sung Amazing Grace, each verse stirring up memories and a kind of gratitude that’s hard to put into words. As the music played, the faces, and even the creak of the wooden pews seemed to settle something deep inside of me.
Then the pastor began his message, and that day, he gave us something new—a fable about a vulture and a hummingbird.
The pastor started off slow, with that knowing smile in his eyes and a pause just long enough to make us all lean in. “Now y’all know a vulture and a hummingbird don’t seem like they’d have a lot in common,” he said, his voice unhurried and inviting. “But every day, those two creatures fly over the very same stretch of desert, seeking something to sustain them. And every day, they each find what they’re lookin’ for—though it’s vastly unique.”
He leaned forward a bit, scanning the room as if he were about to let us in on a secret. “See, that ol’ vulture? He’s a big, dark-winged bird, on the hunt for what’s already passed. He’s seeking decay, for what’s been left behind. And, sure enough, he finds it. His desert is a graveyard of things long gone, ‘cause that’s all he sees.”
He paused, letting his words sink in. “But then, there’s the hummingbird. Tiny thing, barely makes a sound, flittin’ around like a little spot of color in all that brown. She doesn’t care about what’s dead and gone—no, she’s searching for what’s vibrant and alive. She’s hunting for flowers, the fragile little blooms that somehow survive in all that harshness. And it takes some effort, a little faith, but she finds ‘em. She drinks from those flowers every day, and her desert? It’s a place full of color, life, and sweetness.”
As he spoke, I noticed folks around me nodding, a few soft murmurs of agreement. The pastor’s voice softened, leaning into the heart of the message. “Now, we got a choice, don’t we?” he said, meeting our eyes. “We can go searching for what’s dead and gone, the hurt, the loss. Or, like that hummingbird, we can find what’s still got life in it. ‘Cause I reckon there’s beauty out there, even when it’s hard to see.”
He took a step back, leaving a long pause in the room. “So, what kinda bird y’all gonna be? That’s a choice you make every day.”
When he finished, a hush filled the room as we all took in his words, lingering in the wisdom he’d offered. And as I left the church that morning, I could feel that story tagging along, like an old friend with a hand on my shoulder, nudging me to look closer for those hidden blooms, even in the desert moments.