A long time ago, at my church’s ~Closer Walk Bible study, I had just finished sharing when a friend leaned over and whispered, “I have a story for you.” It was a story I would never forget.
Her husband, Dave, had come home from work and noticed something unusual in their backyard pool—a bird flailing in the water. It had likely swooped down to catch a bug and become trapped, its feathers soaked, its wings too heavy to fly. The water was receding, and the bird’s strength was fading fast.
Other birds perched in nearby trees and on the railing, watching. Silently. Mourning, perhaps. Memorizing the moment, as though they knew one of their own was about to be lost.
Without hesitation, Dave jumped in and rescued the trembling creature. He placed it gently on a towel and went inside to take a phone call.
Coming out of the house, standing in the doorway, what he saw stunned him.
A circle of birds had gathered around their fallen friend. They flapped their wings to help her dry. They brought crumbs of food. They stayed, and they loved. And slowly, the sick bird healed. Her feathers dried. Her strength returned. And when she was ready, she flew away—whole again, and not alone.
That story stirred something in me, because I too have been the wounded bird.
Many years ago, I was attacked with flesh-eating acid—my eyes and face left mutilated. I was rendered blind and disfigured in an instant. Shattered, impoverished, and desperate, I left Jamaica and came to America, seeking the medical care I couldn’t find at home. I was broken almost beyond repair. And then… grace.
News of my story spread—on television, radio, and newspapers. I never imagined what would happen next.
People from every walk of life reached out to me. Oscar-winning actors. Grammy-winning singers. Comedians. Movie producers. Teachers. Homeless people. Prisoners. Everyday citizens. They surrounded me with kindness, resources, letters, and love. They saw me—not just my injuries, but my spirit. And like those birds, they stayed long enough to help me dry my wings.
Most of those people are no longer in my life. But the memories remain. Sometimes I reach for one of their notes and read it again. I remember the healing they helped bring. I remember the grace. Because, like that bird, I too flew again.
Maybe you’ve been there too. Shattered by life. Hopeless. Alone. But here’s what I know:
No matter how deep the pain, our crises pass. We can rise again. We can turn the page and start a new chapter.
“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” — Psalm 147:3
If this story moved you, I share more in my book, Face of Hope: The Carol Guscott Story. It’s the true account of survival, unshakable faith, and the power of unexpected grace.
📘 Purchase the book here.
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