The Falconer's Quiet Hands

At the Carolina Raptor Center in Charlotte, North Carolina, volunteers learn a counterintuitive rule on their first day: when a wounded hawk arrives — talons clenched, beak open, wild with fear — you do not restrain it. You do not raise your voice. You dim the lights, move slowly, and wait.

A red-tailed hawk arrived one winter with a shattered wing, struck by a car on I-85. The bird was fierce and terrified. Volunteer Deb Hatcher spent weeks sitting beside it in near-silence, offering food on an outstretched glove, never grabbing, never forcing. "You have to convince them you're not a threat," she said. "One sudden move and you lose weeks of trust."

It took three months. The hawk healed. It flew again — released over a meadow in the Uwharrie National Forest, climbing higher until it became a speck against the winter sky.

Isaiah tells us that God's chosen Servant operates like those quiet hands. He will not shout or cry out in the streets. A bruised reed He will not break. A smoldering wick He will not snuff out. In a culture that equated power with noise and force, God sent justice through gentleness. The Almighty chose patience over coercion, presence over spectacle. He meets us not with a clenched fist but with an outstretched hand — and waits, as long as it takes, for us to trust Him enough to heal.