An Unexpected Wren

There are days that shimmer a little more than others. Today was one.

I went hiking, felt my strength returning, my body alive, my life changing. I’ve lost so much weight I hardly recognize myself in clothes that no longer fit. I went to Kohl’s, then the grocery store, thinking it was just an ordinary day.

Then he called out—“Excuse me, young man”—and waved me over.

He was older, maybe disabled, sitting with a small backpack, needing a ride to the library. I’ve said yes to people like this my whole life, and sometimes it’s gone badly. But I said yes again. I knew, even as he told his tangled story about Florida and iPhones, that he was telling me what he thought I needed to hear. I didn’t need it. I already knew I’d take him.

When I dropped him off, he looked at me and said, “You, sir, will get a golden nugget. I will say a prayer for you.” Then he disappeared into the heat of the day, his name trailing behind him: Wren.

Later, I remembered what I knew about wrens. Small. Bold. Humble. A bird revered in myth and song. The Celtic “King of Birds,” who won the crown not with force but wisdom. A sacred messenger. A voice from the margins. The one who flies quietly but sings with power.

I realized that Wren found me—because I am like him. My whole life has been about helping the thrown-away ones, because I was one of them. Abandoned by my family, discarded by powerful institutions, rejected by the very systems I once served. I lived among the elite but was never truly welcomed. I know what it means to be cast aside—and I know what it means to love anyway.

Wren reminded me that the Divine moves through the margins. That stories don’t have to be true to carry truth. That being chosen by the broken is one of the highest honors a soul can receive.

I will remember this:

Wren asked for a ride.

I gave it.

And in doing so, I met God again.