There is Still More Story To Tell

Violet-boy, being completely himself.

Sometimes you reach a point where everyone around you seems to be saying the same thing.

There is nothing more to be done.

It’s time to accept what is happening.

It’s time to let go.

And sometimes, something inside you simply cannot agree.

That is where I have found myself with my little budgie, Violet-boy.

For about a month now, Violet-boy has been struggling to breathe. There is a significant amount of fluid in his abdomen—or in that area of his body—that is putting pressure on his air sacs. For a bird, that can make breathing difficult and can also leave less room for his stomach to fill normally.

His breathing became increasingly difficult, and eventually I was told that there was very little more that could be done for him.

But there was something I couldn’t get past.

Violet-boy doesn’t look like a little bird who is ready to give up.

Still playing. Still curious. Still very much here.

He is still eating and drinking. He is still playing with his bells. He is still grinding his beak contentedly. He is still singing for little stretches of time . He is still flying to his favorite perches.

He is still interacting with Summer-Willow and continues his little courtship rituals with her.

He is still Violet-boy.

So I kept asking questions.

I kept praying.

I kept searching.

And I kept advocating for him.

I wasn’t convinced that not knowing meant there was nothing left to try.

Eventually, after much searching and advocating, I was able to get a prescription for ivermectin from my veterinarian. It wasn’t a promise of a cure. It wasn’t proof that parasites were the cause of his problems. It was simply another possibility to explore—one that could be tried without putting him through another frightening episode of restraint and could perhaps provide some comfort for him, if nothing else.

And then something happened that gave me hope.

After Violet-boy finally took some of the medicated water, I noticed that he seemed a little different.

A few hours later, when he was resting, he was able to pull one little foot up beneath him.

A small moment that means so much.

Then he tucked his head into his back.

Those may sound like very ordinary things.

But I hadn’t seen him sleep that way in a long time.

He seemed perkier. He was engaging with his bell even more. And when I offered him the medicated water again, he actually took a big gulp.

The next day, he did it again.

Now, I don’t know exactly what this means.

I'm hopeful the improvement will continue. But I can't say exactly whether the medication is responsible for the change I’m seeing. I don’t know what the ultimate outcome will be.

But I do know what I believe.

And that’s where faith is different from simply knowing in the natural sense.

Hebrews 11:1 tells us:

“Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”

Faith doesn’t require me to know exactly how the story will end.

It allows me to believe while I cannot yet see the physical outcome.

Still making time for Summer-Willow.

I believe there is more for Violet-boy.

I believe there is more story to tell.

And I believe the unseen is not less real simply because I cannot see it with my physical eyes. Scripture tells us that what is seen came from what was unseen. The physical world we can touch and measure did not create the spiritual reality; rather, the unseen preceded the seen.

That changes the way I look at hope.

Because hope isn’t necessarily pretending that everything will be okay.

Hope is believing that what I cannot yet see is still possible.

And that belief is what gives us the courage to keep seeking.

To ask another question.

To look a little further.

To advocate when something doesn’t feel finished.

To pray when we don’t have answers.

To listen when something in our heart says, “Don’t stop yet.”

That doesn’t mean ignoring wisdom or pretending that we know more than we do. It means recognizing that, in the beginning, there is a difference between “I know this will happen” and “I believe it can happen.” But in the end, the belief turns into a way of knowing.

Right now I don’t know the details about what's happening inside of Violet-boy.

But I believe he can still get better.

And I am going to keep believing.

For now, I’m watching.

I’m praying.

I’m paying attention to the little things.

And I’m celebrating one tucked foot, one little head turned into a feathered back, and one enthusiastic ring of a bell.

Those eyes make me wonder what he knows.

These are small moments in a difficult season.

But these may very well be the beginning of something I have been praying for.

Romans 8:24-25 tells us:

"...but hope that is seen is not hope; for why does one still hope for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we eagerly wait for it with perseverance."

I don’t need to know the specifics.

But I do know this:

I’m not giving up on him.

Perhaps that is the lesson Violet-boy is giving me right now.

Hope doesn’t come because you know how the story will end.

But hope definitely comes when you believe the story isn’t over yet.

So for now, I wait. I watch. I pray. I keep believing.

Because faith doesn’t require me to see the positive ending before I believe there can be one.

There is still more story to tell.