A couple of summers ago, Dad and I were sitting on his deck listening to the birds when he mentioned he hadn’t seen many Jenny wrens around.
He told me how much my Grandma Ella had loved Jenny wrens, and how he did too. At the time, I wasn’t even sure what a Jenny wren looked like or what its song sounded like.
He explained that Mister Jenny finds two or three good places to nest and builds a nest in each one. Then he brings Mrs. Jenny around like he’s a real estate agent showing houses. She checks them all out, picks the one she likes best, and that’s where she lays her eggs.
He also told me Grandma’s Jenny wren houses had smaller entrance holes so sparrows and other birds couldn’t move in first.
It was one of those ordinary conversations that didn’t seem important at the time. But it stayed with me.
That Christmas, I bought Dad a birdhouse kit. Later that winter, he and a friend built six little Jenny wren houses. He kept three for his yard and gave three to me.
The following spring, I watched a little Jenny wren visit my birdhouses. He checked them out and built a nest in one, but Mrs. Jenny must have chosen another place because she never stayed to leave any precious cargo. Dad didn’t think they got any either that first year.
I remember feeling a little disappointed, figuring maybe next year.
Next year was this year…and Dad isn’t here. We lost him in March. Spring arrived anyway.
The geese came back. The pelicans returned. Flowers started blooming. Life has kept moving forward while my heart is still trying to catch up.
A couple weeks ago, I was sitting at my desk with a glass of iced tea, looking out the window toward the lake. The sunrise was reflecting off the bluffs, and I found myself talking to Dad the way I still do every day.
“Dad,” I whispered, “send me a Jenny wren.”
The next morning, I sat down at my desk again with my glass of iced tea and looked out toward the lake.
A tiny Jenny wren flew into the birdhouse hanging in my maple tree. My eyes started leaking. Throughout the day, I watched him do exactly what Dad had described. He visited the house in the maple tree, then the one in the lilac, then the one hanging in the little pine.
A few days later, Mrs. Jenny made her choice. She picked the little house in the lilac tree. Now there are eggs waiting to hatch. 
Last week, I was planting spinach and arugula in one of my patio container gardens when one of the Jenny wrens landed just inches from my hands. It stayed there for a moment, long enough to make me smile through tears, and then off to the lilac tree…”Thanks, Dad!”
I told Mom about the visit and the nest. She said one of her Jenny wren houses had blown out of a tree during a storm. She had picked it up and set it on a fence post near the gate, waiting for someone to hang it back up.
While she was sitting on the deck, in swooped a Jenny wren. The little birdhouse is only about shoulder height off the ground, so she couldn’t believe it.
I told Mom, “That’s funny that it thought sitting on the fence post was good enough. I think Dad sent it to let you know he’s still with you.”
Jenny wrens mean something special to my husband, too. His dad loved birds. He knew their songs, spent hours watching them, and the Jenny wren was one of his favorites.
Now, whenever we hear that cheerful little song drifting across the yard, it brings a little joy to our hearts.
Do I know if heaven sends Jenny wrens?
Factually, no.
But I do know they’ve come to hold a special place in my heart because they remind me of my dad and our simple conversation one day.
I know he built those little houses with his own hands. And I know that every spring, life continues inside something he made.
That’s part of the grief process—noticing all the ordinary places where someone’s love is still quietly at work. Some people may be more practical than me and explain it away, but I need to believe in signs, God winks, and little messages from Dad.
The Jenny wrens get a home.
And my heart got a tiny patch over a very large wound.
Today I’m Grateful For…
The ordinary conversations we don’t realize will become treasured memories someday. For summer mornings, birdsongs, and the people whose love continues to echo through the things they made and the stories they shared.
Question for You
Is there something ordinary—a bird, a flower, a favorite chair, a recipe, a song, or even a coffee mug—that reminds you of someone you love? Is there something that your heart knows is a sign or message from a loved one?
I’d love to hear your story in the comments. 
Anyway—Off We Go. 
Sometimes the smallest houses hold big memories. And to answer my own question…I may not know it as a fact, but I BELIEVE heaven sends Jenny wrens, and even turtles too 
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© Erica Shoemaker | Anyway—Off We Go.
