A few weeks ago, my fiancee called me excitedly to come see something on the balcony. I scanned the view, trying to figure out what he was so interested in.

“No,” he said, “look down.”

My balcony is not terribly interesting. Wood planks. Two deck chairs. A couple garden gnomes that were a gag gift from my realtor.

“Look closer.” He pointed to a crack between two planks of wood.

I had to get on my hands and knees to get my eyes close enough to see between the cracks, but finally I caught a glimpse of what had him so excited–

We had a robin’s nest.

Three perfect blue eggs, in a nest perched on top of the column holding the balcony up.

This was only a week or so after our state’s pandemic isolation had begun. More days were cold and gray than not. The predictions were staggering, the economy was plunging, and everything was feeling pretty hopeless.

But still that mama robin laid her eggs.

Hope in the cracks. 

Hope has been hard to come by in this season. As of the time of this writing, we have lost nearly 70,000 people to COVID-19 in this country alone. Celebrations have been cancelled. Safety nets have been torn asunder. We are lost, lonely, and longing for our old life back. Hope for safety–safe worship, safe school, safe work, safe gatherings–seems a long, long way off.

And yet if you look hard enough, there’s still plenty of hope to be found. Hard to see, but right here nonetheless.

Hope when teachers manage to pour compassion through online classes. Hope when medical staff forge forward despite the dangers. Hope when scientists pull together across companies to speed up the timeline of a vaccine. Hope when we realize that some things about a slower pace of life aren’t so bad. Hope when neighbors start to recognize each other again. Hope when politicians work across party lines to care for their constituents. Hope when neighborhoods clap for nurses, or sing across balconies. Hope when bus drivers deliver meals to hungry children. Hope when we find peace at the end of long, stressful days.

Our fear, our pain, our grief, is strong, but not so strong that hope can’t pierce it. Not so total that hope can’t be seen through the cracks.

Over the last few weeks, we’ve watched our robin eggs carefully, and a week or so ago they finally hatched. Three ugly-as-sin robin babies, squawking for worms and for mama. Over that week, their feathers came in, and yesterday afternoon, they flew the nest, shortened wings flapping as they learned how their bodies work. We watched them most of the day, hopping around the yard, excited to explore the world, their new home.

I’ve been grateful for these baby robins. Not just as a distraction–which are exceedingly welcome in these days–but as a reminder that new life may lie right below our feet, and hope right before our eyes, if we can only manage to see it.