The early morning along the old highway is a sanctuary of sights and sounds. But it is the common blue of the wild chicory and the uncommon blue of the indigo bunting that both delight and surprise me.

Chicory can grow in soil that most plants cannot; it has a deep tap-root that can break through the hardest, most compacted soil. As such, I’ve come to expect the proliferation of its periwinkle flowers in ditches and lining the highways and county roads. It is common and pushes through even newly laid gravel.

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And yet there is something glorious in the persistence of blue amidst the summer world of green.

The blue of the male indigo bunting is an uncommon cerulean, almost neon in its brilliance. A shy, wren-like bird, the indigo bunting often migrates by night, navigating by the stars. From a distance, it appears black until the sun hits its mark. When it does, even the bluest sky pales in comparison.

Each day I walk, I hope to see just one indigo bunting, lit up by the morning sun, close enough to take in its flash of blue for one moment. The indigo buntings of rural Davis County taunt me with their sweet songs. They surround me and–maddeningly–sound close enough to touch. I have learned to spot them on the tallest, barest branches: solitary singers at dawn. Most days, I take solace in their presence in spite of the fact that I cannot see them.

Last week as I was about to leave the old highway to turn onto Monarch Trail, I spotted something on the pavement in front of me. As I got closer, I realized that it was an indigo bunting, dead by the edge of the road. I stopped, stooped to take a closer look. Perfectly preserved, its head was a deeper indigo, its breast and wings, cerulean. Even in death, its beauty spoke life. I picked it up and moved it into the clover that lined the ditch, for I could not bear the thought of a passing truck grinding all that brilliance into the pavement.

As I walked on, I could not help but anticipate my return trip. I would look at the bunting again. I would take in as much of it as I could. I would not forget how the deeper blue gives way to something other-worldly and uncommonly lovely.

The sanctuary of blue in my quest to see the indigo bunting is private and infrequent.  Why would a bird so wonderful choose to hide itself? Why would the sun neglect to halo it each time it moves from the shadows onto an open branch? Why would my eyes fail to see it when my ears can hear it?

When I think of the indigo bunting, I recall Matthew’s words concerning prayer:

But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.  Matthew 6:6 (NIV)

What is done privately, in secret, is not only acceptable in our Father’s sight, but preferable. I forget this, too often. The indigo bunting reminds me that beauty and grace abound, and it is enough to know that they do even when I cannot see.

The indigo bunting continually prays in a private sanctuary, reserving the abundance of its blue for the Creator. I would do well to do likewise.