Soul Lessons From God: The Grace of Hope

The Return to the Garden

There are places where time folds in on itself — where a single location becomes a threshold between what was, what is, and what is still becoming. The Botanic Gardens is one of those places for me.

A year ago, I walked into that space carrying a kind of grief that had no language yet. I had just lost the last of my cats, the final thread of a twenty‑year chapter that shaped my adulthood, my home, my identity, and my heart. Ophelia’s passing on June 6th marked the end of an era so large it felt like a continent shifting beneath me.

I didn’t know who I was without the weight of that history. I didn’t know what life looked like without the familiar rhythm of caring for the animals who had carried me through surgeries, heartbreaks, moves, and transformations.

And yet, on that same day, in that same garden, something else began.

I met the woman who would become my mentor — the one who would open the door to a new world of raptors, training, and purpose. And I met the eagle who would become a mirror, a symbol, and a quiet companion in my unfolding story. 

I didn’t know then how deeply she would imprint on my path. I didn’t know how her presence would echo through the next year of my life. I didn’t know that God was already stitching something new into the space where something old had just ended.

What I could not have known in 2025 was that by February of the following year, I would be spending real time with her — not as a visitor, but as someone inside her world. I began working at the mews, learning the rhythms of feeding, cleaning, and quiet interaction. 

I learned her sounds, her moods, her posture, the subtle ways she communicates comfort or caution. I learned how she shifts her weight when she’s curious, how she watches people she recognizes, how she softens when she feels safe. How she sings. I wasn’t handling her, but I was present — consistently, respectfully, and with a growing sense of connection that surprised me in its depth.

So when I returned to the Botanic Gardens this year, it wasn’t just a symbolic full circle. It was a reunion between two beings who had already been sharing space for months. It was the merging of two timelines — the one that began in grief a year ago, and the one that had been quietly building since February, shaped by routine, presence, and the slow, steady trust that forms when you show up again and again.

This time, I wasn’t a visitor standing on the outside of the barrier. I was a docent in training, standing on the same side as the raptors, learning the language of the glove, jess, posture, and presence. I wasn’t holding her — not yet — but I was closer than I had ever been. And she knew it. 

She looked at me with a recognition that felt ancient, as if she remembered the version of me from a year ago and was acknowledging the shift, the growth, the quiet transformation that had taken place since then. But she also recognized the version of me she had come to know in the mews — the one who fed her, cleaned around her, gave her a bath with the hose, the one who spoke to her softly, and learned her rhythms with reverence.

It was hope — not loud, not dramatic, but steady and unmistakable.
The kind of hope that rises when you realize you are no longer standing where you once stood.

The first time I saw her, she was on the glove of the woman who would become my mentor. I remember the weight of that moment — the way the air felt charged, the way her presence filled the space, the way she sang, and the way her eyes held a depth that made everything else fall away. 

She was powerful, grounded, and impossibly calm. And I was standing there with a heart that had just broken open hours earlier, trying to understand how grief and grace could arrive in the same breath.

I didn’t know her story then. I didn’t know the path she had taken to arrive at that garden. I didn’t know how much she had endured, how many times she had been displaced, how many hands had tried to decide her fate. I only knew that something in her presence felt like a message — a reminder that endings are not empty spaces but openings. That God often meets us in the exact place where something has been taken away.

I walked away from that event changed, though I couldn’t articulate why. I only knew that something had shifted — a thread had been pulled, a door had opened, a new chapter had begun even as the old one closed.

The Bald Eagle’s Story

Her story is not simple. It is not clean. It is not the kind of narrative people want to hear when they imagine the wild. She was stolen from her nest as a juvenile, taken by human hands for reasons no one will ever fully understand. 

She was kept illegally, fed improperly, and then abandoned at a campground where she jumped onto picnic tables and begged for scraps. She was picked up by a game warden, shuffled into an unofficial rehab situation, and then caught in a political tug‑of‑war between agencies who couldn’t agree on whether she was releasable, imprinted, or simply confused.

She was released twice — once near her birthplace, once further east — and both times she returned to human spaces, weak, starving, and unafraid. She flew into buildings, grabbed gloves and objects, perched on low structures, and approached people, horses, and dogs with a familiarity that made her survival impossible. By the time she was found the second time, she was down to seven and a half pounds — a shadow of what she should have been.

She was taken to the same rehabilitation center where I began my own journey with raptors years later — the place where I learned to handle birds for the first time. The place that took a chance on me when I was recovering from surgeries and needed to rebuild my strength. The place that shaped my understanding of the wild and my place within it.

She and I both passed through that threshold — years apart, under different circumstances, but with the same underlying truth: we were both trying to find our way back to ourselves.

Eventually, she was offered to the organization I now serve. She lived with the woman who would become my mentor, receiving patient, consistent training to undo the damage of her early life. She learned to trust again. She learned to stand on the glove. She learned to exist in a world that had failed her more than once.

Her story is one of displacement, confusion, survival, and slow rebuilding. And in that, she mirrors something in me — the parts of my life that were taken, the parts that were abandoned, the parts that had to be rebuilt through patience, consistency, and grace.

Standing beside her this year — not as a visitor, but as someone who belongs on this side of the barrier — felt like stepping into a moment God had been shaping for a long time. There was a quiet gravity to it, the sense that something had come full circle without fanfare, without announcement, without needing to be named. 

She looked at me with a familiarity that felt like recognition, as if she could sense the thread that connected us. Not a bond of ownership or imprinting, but a bond of shared history — two beings who had been reshaped by circumstances beyond their control, and who had found their way into a new chapter through the hands of people who believed in them.

I wasn’t holding her. I wasn’t feeding her. I wasn’t speaking to her the way I do when we are at the mews, where the world is quieter and the rhythm between us is more intimate. But she knew me. And I knew her. And in that quiet exchange, something settled inside me — a sense of alignment, a sense of rightness, a sense of hope. It felt like standing in the exact place God had been guiding me toward, even on the days when I didn’t know where I was going.

The event went better than I could have imagined. I felt grounded, capable, present. I felt like I belonged — not because I had earned it perfectly, but because I had shown up consistently. And I felt the weight of the year behind me — the grief, the growth, the training, the transformation — all converging in that single moment. It was as if the gardens itself remembered who I had been a year ago and was bearing witness to who I had become.

The Soul Lesson: The Grace of Hope

Hope is not always a bright, shining thing. Sometimes hope is quiet. Sometimes hope is a return. Sometimes hope is standing in the same place you stood a year ago and realizing you are not the same person anymore. 

Hope is the soft shift inside you when you recognize that something has healed, even if you didn’t notice the healing while it was happening. Hope is the gentle awareness that you have crossed a threshold without forcing it, without rushing it, without even knowing you were approaching it.

Hope is the recognition in an eagle’s eyes.

Hope is the presence of a mentor who believes in you.
Hope is the memory of a cat who carried you through decades of life.
Hope is the knowledge that endings are not empty — they are openings.
Hope is God weaving threads across years, across species, across grief and calling, until the pattern becomes clear.

This is the grace of hope — the grace that rises after loss, the grace that appears in the exact place where something ended, the grace that says: You are not done. Something new is beginning. Hope is not the promise that everything will be easy; it is the assurance that you are not walking alone. It is the quiet conviction that God has been guiding your steps long before you realized you were on a path at all.

And in that garden, standing beside the eagle who has walked her own long road back to herself, I felt it.
Not as a promise.
Not as a prophecy.
But as a presence — steady, grounded, unmistakable.

Hope meeting me exactly where God knew I would return.

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Opening Descent: When God Speaks Through Wings

I didn’t go to Horseshoe Park on Monday expecting revelation. I went because something in me felt unfinished — a thread tugging at the edge of my awareness, a quiet insistence that the story wasn’t over. 

I had already written about the untethered red‑tail from last Sunday, the one with the jesses still dangling, the one who flew with the remnants of captivity visible against the sky. I had already written about the male hawk from this weekend, the hawk carrying prey, the one who embodied sovereignty and rightful claim. I had already written about the female bald eagle, the one who showed me what it means to feel anger and choose restraint. I thought the lessons had landed. I thought the arc was complete.

But God has a way of circling back when the message hasn’t yet reached the soul.

So I returned to Horseshoe Park — not at the same time, not in the same rhythm, not with the same expectation. I went simply because I felt pulled. And the moment I stepped into the open space, I could feel it: the air was different. Charged. Intentional. As if something had been waiting for me, not for days, but for the exact moment when I would be able to understand it.

And then she appeared.

The red‑tail with the jesses.
The one I had seen last Sunday.
The one whose presence had opened the entire sequence.

She came again.

And everything shifted.

The First Symbol: The Hawk Who Returned With Her Truth

Saturday evening — that is when I saw her again for the second time. I hadn’t written about it yet because I didn’t know what it meant. I only knew it mattered. I had gone back to Horseshoe Park at dusk, pulled by something I couldn’t name. And there she was — the same female red‑tail, the same flight pattern, the same posture, the same unmistakable shape of jesses dangling from her legs.

This time there was no question.
No ambiguity.
No possibility of prey.

She was tethered.
She had been tethered.
She was flying with the remnants of captivity still attached.

She flew directly over me again, just like the first time, but she didn’t linger. She didn’t circle for ten minutes. She didn’t hold the sky in long, distressed arcs. She appeared, revealed the truth, and then disappeared into the cottonwoods as if her only purpose was to confirm what I had doubted.

It wasn’t prey.
It had never been prey.
It was jesses.

She came back to show me the truth I needed to see — the truth I had been afraid to trust.

She had been bound.
She had been held.
She had been tethered.

And yet she was flying.

This was the moment the past revealed itself fully — not to haunt me, but to release me. She wasn’t circling in distress anymore. She wasn’t caught between captivity and freedom. She was simply showing me what had been real.

Sometimes God brings the past back not to reopen the wound, but to close it with clarity.

And then came today — what should have been a normal Monday.

The third sighting.
The final sighting.
The one that changed everything.

She came from the east this time — not the north, not the direction of survival and endurance, but the direction of beginnings, dawn, awakening. She flew with purpose, not hesitation. She flew with strength, not strain. And for the first time, she called.

Red‑tails don’t call without reason.
They call when they are asserting territory.
They call when they are announcing presence.
They call when they are sovereign.

Her voice cut through the air — sharp, resonant, alive. She called again. And again. And again. Not distressed. Not alarmed. Not warning. Speaking.

The jesses were still there — faint, subtle, visible only because I knew where to look — but they were no longer the point. They were no longer the story. They were no longer the symbol.

The symbol was her.

Her freedom.
Her voice.
Her direction.
Her sovereignty.

She flew directly over me again, but this time she didn’t feel like a mirror of my captivity. She felt like a mirror of my becoming.

She didn’t linger because the lesson wasn’t about being stuck anymore.
She didn’t circle because the message wasn’t about endurance anymore.
She didn’t hesitate because the story wasn’t about captivity anymore.

She came to show me: “You are free now. You have a voice now. You are moving forward now.”

The jesses were still visible — but they no longer defined her. Just like the past is still visible in me — but it no longer defines me.

The Third Symbol: The Turkey Vulture — God’s Messenger of Renewal

And then, moments after she disappeared into the eastern sky, the air shifted again.

A shadow rose from the far edge of the park — wide‑winged, slow, deliberate. A bird circling in the thermals, rising with the invisible currents of the earth. At first I thought it was another hawk, but then I saw the wingspan, the posture, the glide.

A turkey vulture.

But not just any vulture — a juvenile, with a black head instead of the red of the adults. A young one. A beginning. A new chapter in feathered form.

Turkey vultures have always been God to me.
Not angels.
Not omens.
Not symbols of death.
But symbols of transition, purification, renewal, divine oversight.

They are the ones who take what is dead and return it to the earth.
They are the ones who escort endings.
They are the ones who bless thresholds.

And this one flew directly over me — circling, soaring, steady, silent.

It felt like a benediction.
A blessing.
A divine acknowledgment.

As if God was saying: “I see your transformation. I see your release. I see your becoming. And I am with you.”

The hawk was the human lesson.
The vulture was the divine confirmation.

When I step back and look at the sequence, the thread is unmistakable.

Last Sunday — The First Red‑Tailed Hawk

Untethered but still marked by captivity.
Flying with the past still attached.
The beginning of the lesson.

Friday — The Male Red‑Tailed Hawk

Carrying prey.
Holding what was his.
Sovereignty.
Rightful claim.
The counterpoint.

Friday — The Bald Eagle

The moment of choice.
The moment of restraint.
The moment the anger softened instead of spilling outward.
Her presence wasn’t about dominance or power — it was about clarity,
the clarity to choose who you want to be even when your body is overwhelmed.
She was the one who said: “Release the anger. Choose your path. Choose your response.”
She was the pivot that made the rest of the revelation possible.

Saturday Night — The Second Sighting of the Female Red‑Tailed Hawk

Returning to reveal the truth.
Confirming the jesses.
Confirming the captivity.
Confirming the past.

Monday — The Third Sighting of the Female Red‑Tailed Hawk

Free.
Calling.
Moving forward.
No longer defined by the jesses.
The transformation.

Monday — The Juvenile Turkey Vulture

God stepping into the story.
Blessing the transition.
Marking the new beginning.
The divine seal.

This is not coincidence.
This is not random wildlife.
This is not imagination.

This is a three‑part revelation: Captivity → Sovereignty → Truth → Freedom → Blessing

The hawk showed me the past.
The hawk showed me the present.
The eagle showed me the choice.
The vulture showed me the future.

The Soul Lesson — The Grace of Hope

Hope is not a feeling.
Hope is not optimism.
Hope is not a wish.

Hope is a divine intervention.

Hope is the moment God steps into your story and says: “You are not alone. You are not forgotten. You are not trapped. You are becoming.”

The hawk with jesses was the part of me that had been bound — the part that had been overwhelmed, overstimulated, trapped in noise, trapped in anger, trapped in survival.

The male hawk was the part of me that is sovereign — the part that knows how to hold what is mine,
the part that knows how to land with my rightful claim intact.

And the bald eagle was the moment of choice — the moment the anger softened instead of spilling outward, the moment I realized I could choose restraint, choose clarity, choose who I wanted to be
even when my nervous system was screaming for release.

She was the one who said:

“Let it go. Do not become what the world is provoking. Choose the path that leads you forward.”

The hawk returning Saturday night was the past revealing itself fully — not to haunt me, but to release me.

The hawk today was the part of me that is free — the part that has a voice, the part that is moving forward,
the part that is no longer defined by what once held me.

And the vulture was God — the presence that watches, blesses, guides, and renews.

Hope is not fragile.
Hope is fierce.
Hope is the moment the divine says: “The past is over. The future is forming. Keep going.”

As I stood in Horseshoe Park today, watching the hawk call and the vulture circle,
I felt something I haven’t felt in months — not peace, not certainty, but hope.

The kind of hope that doesn’t depend on circumstances.
The kind of hope that doesn’t require the house to sell tomorrow.
The kind of hope that doesn’t collapse under noise or chaos.
The kind of hope that comes from God, not from outcomes.

The hawk flew with her past still visible — but she was free.
The vulture flew with the blessing of new beginnings — but he was steady.

And the bald eagle — her message still echoed through me: the reminder that I can choose my response,
that I can release the anger instead of feeding it, that I can step out of the old pattern and into the woman I am becoming.

And I realized:

I am not trapped.
I am transitioning.
I am not abandoned.
I am accompanied.
I am not lost.
I am guided.

The hawk showed me my freedom.
The eagle showed me my choice.
The vulture showed me God’s presence.

And together they delivered the soul lesson: Hope is the grace that arrives when God sends wings to remind you that you are not alone — not in the waiting, not in the noise, not in the uncertainty, not in the becoming.

You are held.
You are guided.
You are moving toward the life that is already waiting for you.

And God is already there.

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