Every year, as the nights begin to shorten and the days grow warmer, my husband takes on the task of removing last year’s bird nests from our garage. It’s a small role we play in welcoming a new season. Most people probably don’t think twice about taking down an old nest. I used to be one of them.

Several years ago, I noticed what appeared to be the beginnings of a nest on the ledge over our garage doors.  Later that day, I caught sight of the happy couple, whom I later discovered were phoebes, arriving with bits of moss, mud, and twigs, carefully weaving them into a new nursery. Within a matter of days, the nest was completed and Mama Bird was keeping her eggs safe and warm while Dad stood watch from the electric line hanging just outside of the garage.  

Over the next few weeks, we watched them become expectant parents, devoted protectors, tireless insect hunters, and eventually empty nesters. We watched as small eggs turned into fuzzy feathered balls of fluff, piling on top of one another, fighting for a chance for a view of the world beyond. Each day I would greet the little family when I left and returned from work, but towards the end, I knew our days together were numbered as the babies had literally outgrown their home. I knew it wouldn’t be long before they left. 

One afternoon I parked the car, gathered my things, and instinctively looked toward the nest. It was empty.

Their nest was empty because the season of growth  had given way to a season of flight. They were no longer fighting over cramped spaces and limited views. Now the fledglings were flying, experiencing the world the way they were intended to experience it, but the empty nest left behind a void for me. As old habits die hard, we left the nest up. I could not bring myself to remove it, and I continued to check the nest as I made my way in and out of the garage for a while. Eventually I stopped looking for them.  

I stopped looking until a year later in early spring when something caught my eye. Our old nest looked different. The sides that had sagged with time were plumper and showing signs of renovation. Soon I saw a new, or possibly last year’s couple, sprucing up the nest with fresh moss and mud. Over the period of a few days, the nest renovations were completed and the eggs were laid, but we never got to see those babies fly away. One day I returned from work to find the nest lying on the garage floor, broken eggs scattered around it. I stood above that fallen nest with its fragmented shells and felt an incredible sense of loss for what could have been. It was a loss that required a moment.

Eventually the parents built a new foundation for their nest further down the ledge. No corners were cut this time, and the new nest proved itself capable of supporting the birds from eggs to fledglings. 

We learned a lesson that year. An old nest is not designed to support new life. We live our lives in seasons. Some seasons invite us to build. Others ask us to let go. Some are filled with joyful noise, while others are so quiet we wonder what comes next. Every season has its purpose, and each prepares us for the one that follows.

I am writing this in that quiet season we call the empty nest. My son is growing up and preparing to move out. I have just retired from a lifelong career in education, and my husband and I are learning that the nest is very quiet now. I don’t have all the answers for this season of life even though I thought I was prepared for it.  I’m still learning how to navigate this part of the journey, but along the way, I hope to discover a wee bit of something—something beautiful, useful, funny, comforting, or encouraging—and share it with you.

“Forget the former things; 
do not dwell on the past. 
See, I am doing a new thing! 
Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the wilderness 
and streams in the wasteland.”
–Isaiah 43:18-19

If you’re finding yourself in a new season too, I hope you’ll join me as we discover the beauty God is creating in it together.