Chapter Eleven

Stumped.

I saw a bluejay today.

I wasn’t able to capture him with my camera—and I’m okay with that. It was a moment I’ll carry in my heart forever. Writing this leaves me feeling very vulnerable, and I wrestled with whether or not to share it. But if I’m inviting you into this journey, it feels only fair to share the whole of it.

If you’ve been following along, you know the trees, birds, branches, and leaves have all carried deep meaning for me this past month. You also know I longed to see both the Cardinal and the Bluebird up close. I saw the Cardinal, but never the Bluebird—leaving me looking forward to the day I would.

I’ve been listening to God speak through nature. Lately, His words haven’t been soft or easy. I’ve heard things like “hardened heart” and “roots of bitterness.” And as always, the process begins with a photograph—an image that stirs a lesson, sometimes instantly, sometimes later.

Yesterday, I wandered into a wooded rest stop. Among the tall trees were several stumps. They caught my eye—silent, powerful reminders. I took a photo of one and just knew it held something for me.

Back in the car, I slid in one of the CDs Winnie had given me. It was Martha Kilpatrick—the teaching CD I’d avoided the whole trip. I reached forward to eject it, but before I could, her voice said:

“The axe, to which the root of bitterness will be dug up with, is called Repentance.”

Whoa.

I listened, uneasy, wondering what I still needed to repent of.

One issue that rose to the surface was my abortion at 19. I had asked the Lord’s forgiveness years ago. How could repentance still be required? I even tried forgiving myself, though the words always felt hollow.

I began to wonder: were there roots hidden beneath the surface, like the stump I had photographed—cut down but still unable to bear fruit?

I asked God: What do I need to do? How do I repent of something I thought was already forgiven? What am I missing?

Ten minutes later, I pulled off at one of my Route 66 stops—the giant Cross at Groom, Texas. I had promised myself I’d stop there on the return trip.

The air itself felt different as I walked the grounds. Too many people crowded around the stations of the cross, so I wandered to a quieter place. There, I saw a statue of Jesus kneeling in prayer, silhouetted against the sun. In His hand, He seemed to be holding something. A bird, I thought. How beautiful would that be—a symbol of hope, captured in stone?

I moved closer.

Not a bird.

A baby.

A tiny, delicate baby rested in His hand. As I circled to the front, my heart stopped—it was a memorial for the innocent victims of abortion.

The tears came uncontrollably. My heart crumbled, wave after wave of remorse breaking over me. I sat with Jesus as He knelt, and I wept with Him.

It’s not that I had never felt remorse before. I had. But only as much as my protected, guarded heart would allow. This journey has been about opening that heart wide—exposing what I had unknowingly kept hidden behind strength, self-protection, and even self-righteousness.

I realized bitterness had taken root long ago, sprouting fruits that might even look productive to others—like independence, achievement, resilience. But underneath was hardness. A heart that could not fully feel the grief of sin, or the depth of God’s mercy.

And here, on this trip, God was not only asking me to repent—He was helping me feel the remorse I had buried.

When my tears finally slowed, I looked up.

There he was.

A bluejay. Sitting right next to the statue of Jesus. He looked at me for a moment, then flew away.

It was a supernatural exchange—remorse for grace, grief for a gift I did not deserve. The bluejay was God’s answer, His reminder that even here, His love reaches me.

As I drove away, I whispered, “How can You love me so much? I took a life.”

And in my mind, I saw again the image of Jesus kneeling, the cross behind Him.

How great is our God.