Yesterday he stood at the corner of the dock in the gold of the mist. Today he was in the shallows, taking one slow step and then standing still. The morning was cold enough that my breath hung in the air, and frost silvered the grass along the shore.
I watched him for a long while. He seemed in no hurry, his slender legs planted in the cold water, his eyes fixed on whatever might be moving beneath the surface. I wondered whether he had found anything to eat.
A heron’s stillness is part of how he hunts. By moving slowly and waiting, he becomes less noticeable to the fish beneath the surface. What looks like inactivity is anything but.
The fog was heavy and blue, and he stood against it, a small dark shape at the water’s edge. Then, almost without warning, he thrust his head downward and lifted into flight. It happened so quickly that I could barely follow him. My photographs caught only a blur of wings, a dark shape above the water, and then a speck disappearing into the gray.
I don’t know whether he caught anything. I only know that he had waited a long time before that sudden burst of movement.
A short while later, he returned to the dock. The fog had begun to lift, and sunlight spread across the lake, turning the water gold. He stood at the corner, his neck tucked close, resting in the growing warmth. Later he straightened, lifted his head, and looked out over the water again.
And there he was, waiting.
I found myself thinking of my father.
We used to look for great blue herons together. He told me they were elusive, and despite all our looking, we never managed to find one. I can still remember how much we wanted to see one standing quietly along the water.
Now one visits the lake almost every morning.
Sometimes I imagine my father standing beside me, watching this remarkable bird. I can almost hear him saying, “Would you look at that! See how patient he is? And quiet? Such stillness.”
Before my father died, I asked him to find some way, if the Lord allowed it, for us to continue the conversation we had always shared. He smiled and nodded.
I don’t know what such a thing would look like. But I do know that my father taught me to look closely at the world, to notice what others might pass by, and to enter what he called the Great Conversation.
And here I am, still looking.
I am waiting, too. Waiting for the day when I will see my father again. But while I wait, there is so much to see, so much to discover of the God who made this beautiful world and continues to teach me through it.
The heron stands at the corner of the dock, watching the water.
And I stand here, watching him.
Both of us waiting.
So I watch. I learn. And I smile.
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© 2026 Gilda Wray. All rights reserved.
Perhaps he is speaking to you by the heron? I'm not one to attribute these interactions to your father's spirit interacting through a heron. But our Father in Heaven knows.
Gilda, what a beautiful and touching reflection. I especially loved the connection between the heron and your father. How special that a bird you both searched for together now visits you so regularly. What a precious reminder of the moments you shared and the gift he gave you of appreciating God's creation.
Your observation that what looks like inactivity is anything but really resonated with me. Sometimes waiting can feel like nothing is happening, when perhaps God is quietly working in ways we cannot yet see. I've certainly experienced seasons when I've had to remind myself to trust His timing rather than my own.
And your final words, “Both of us waiting,” were especially moving. There's both sadness and beautiful hope in those words. Thank you for reminding me that even in seasons of waiting, there is still so much beauty to notice and so much to be grateful for.