A Glimpse of Joy: The Moment a Bird Changed Everything

I’ve led more birding trips than I can count—some small and quiet, others lively and full of eager new faces. Whether it’s with the Tyler Audubon Society, Birds of East Texas, Birds of Lake O’ the Pines, or the Bald Eagles group on Lake O’ the Pines, I’ve been lucky to spend time with folks who find joy in birds the same way I do.

And truth be told, I’ve never been on a birding trip where I didn’t have a good time. There’s just something about walking the woods or the edge of a lake with people who share your love for nature that brings out the best in everyone. But every now and then, something happens—something quiet and unexpected—that stays with you long after the binoculars are packed away.

That’s what happened to me today.

I had taken a group out to Old Sabine Bottom Wildlife Management Area. The company was great, the birds were cooperative, and the sun was kind enough to shine just right. But what made this trip unforgettable wasn’t on the checklist. It wasn’t even a lifer.

It was something else. Something deeper.

After the official outing had ended, I lingered behind, just finishing up some eBird entries and letting the moment settle a little. A couple of newer birders had pulled over nearby and were still peering into the woods, laughing, chatting, and trying to pick out one more warbler, one more mystery bird they hadn’t quite identified yet.

I drove over and joined them for a while. There’s something contagious about the joy of someone new to birding—their excitement, their curiosity, the way every flutter in the trees holds the promise of magic. It reminded me of those early days when every bird felt like a miracle.

One of them, wide-eyed and hopeful, told me she really wanted to see a Northern Parula. We’d heard them singing throughout the day and caught glimpses as they darted through the canopy, but she hadn’t gotten a good look yet.

“They’re so beautiful,” she said softly, as if naming a wish out loud.

So we drove down to a spot I knew—an open area surrounded by deep woods where Parulas often hang out. Since it was after nesting season, I played the bird’s call for just a few seconds, and within moments, they were all around us. Five or six of them, dancing in the trees above, flitting through the branches, answering the call.

She was thrilled, but still scanning, still hoping.

“I just want to see one clearly,” she whispered.

And then, as if the bird knew it had been summoned for something more important than a checklist, one Parula landed on a branch right in the open. The sunlight hit just right, and its colors lit up like stained glass.

“I see it! I see it!”

There was wonder in her voice, and then—without warning—tears.

She gasped and kept talking about how beautiful it was, her voice cracking just slightly, her eyes shining in more ways than one. The bird stayed just long enough for her to drink it in, and she did—truly, fully, with her whole heart.

She sniffled once or twice, a little embarrassed maybe, but all I could think was, this is it. This is what birding is about. Not the numbers, not the gear, not the perfect photo. It’s about those moments when nature reaches into your chest and gently tugs at something you didn’t even know was there. I can’t tell you how much that touched me.

Maybe to some, it sounds silly. Maybe to someone who’s never felt that kind of connection, that sudden surge of joy, it’s hard to explain. But if you’ve ever watched a bird appear like a gift out of the trees and felt your breath catch in your throat—you understand.

That moment? I’ll never forget it.

For some, birding is a hobby. For some, it’s simply a nice way to enjoy the outdoors. But for others—maybe for more of us than we admit—it’s something sacred. It’s healing. It’s joy.

And to the birder who shared that joy with me today—thank you. Thank you for reminding me why I do this, and why I keep showing up to the woods with a field guide in my back pocket and hope in my heart.

It was your moment, not mine. But I’m grateful beyond words to have been there with you when it happened.

— At Old Sabine Bottom WMA, Texas Parks and Wildlife