Knowing Eyes

The boat rocked gently beneath me as we drifted through the pre-dawn stillness of Blue Cypress Lake. Can you picture it? That moment when the world holds its breath—not quite night, not yet day—when possibilities hang suspended in the air like the Spanish moss draping from ancient cypress branches. I had come seeking photographs, but found myself drawn into something deeper—a living parable unfolding before my eyes.

"Be still, and know that I am God." (Psalm 46)

The whispered Scripture seemed to ripple across the dark waters as our boat drifted silently forward. In that moment of stillness, our guide pointed toward a large collection of sticks nestled in the crown of a nearby cypress. Through my lens, I watched a mother osprey standing alert at the nest's edge, her head turning in constant vigilance as her nearly-grown chick impatiently stretched wings awaiting it’s father's return.

"That chick is getting big," I observed. "The parents must be bringing in a lot of fish from this lake."

"That's the remarkable thing," our guide explained. "These ospreys don't actually fish in Blue Cypress Lake at all."

I lowered my camera in surprise. "But they're flying fishermen. Why would they nest here if they don't fish here?"

"There are two theories," our guide explained. "Some believe it's because the water here is too dark—they can't see below the surface. Others think it might be a protection strategy—by hunting far from home, they don't draw predators to their vulnerable young."

These magnificent birds had chosen to build their homes in a place that couldn't directly sustain them. Every meal required a journey to another lake entirely—miles of flying, searching, hunting, and returning. Nothing about their most basic need was convenient or guaranteed. Yet there they were, thriving.

"My God will meet all your needs according to the riches of His glory in Christ Jesus." (Philippians 4:19)

How many times had I questioned God's provision simply because it didn't arrive in the package I expected or from the source I anticipated? How often had I limited His ability to provide by trying to dictate the how and where?

Just then, movement caught my eye—an osprey returning to its nest. As I focused my lens, the bird suddenly changed direction, turning directly toward me. Through my viewfinder, I found myself staring into its eyes. Golden, fierce, and possessed of a clarity I'd rarely encountered.

Those eyes. They weren't just seeing me; they were seeing through me.

"Nothing in all creation is hidden from God's sight. Everything is uncovered and laid bare before the eyes of Him to whom we must give account." (Hebrews 4:13)

As I stood there feeling venerable and exposed the osprey banked away, continuing toward its nest, but something in me had shifted. What did this creature know that I didn't? What certainty lived behind those unflinching eyes?

The following day, my photography journey took me miles away to the ocean shore. As the early morning light painted the horizon, I found myself in a completely different environment—one where the rules of survival played out more visibly on the stage of clear coastal waters.

Here the competition is intense, coming in many shapes and sizes. Here you learn that not every effort is rewarded with success.

I watched an osprey hovering high above the water, its focus absolute before launching with astonishing speed toward the surface below. The impact sent water splashing skyward as it disappeared completely beneath the waves.

Seconds passed.

Then—eruption. With powerful wing beats, the osprey broke the surface, water streaming from its feathers, a struggling fish grasped firmly in its talons. The osprey had crossed between worlds and emerged victorious, carrying its provision.

In this triumphant moment, I could see that strength in action. Wings heavy with water, carrying additional weight, the osprey needed to gain altitude. Each powerful stroke required tremendous effort, yet there was no hesitation. No doubt. No fear that the burden would prove too much.

"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." (Philippians 4:13)

All of a sudden, I noticed something else—a pelican in hot pursuit, its massive wings working to intercept the smaller bird and steal its hard-earned catch. The osprey, despite its burden, executed a series of sharp turns, eventually outmaneuvering its pursuer. I nodded my head in approval as the words echoed in my mind...

"No weapon forged against you will prevail." (Isaiah 54:17)

As I watched this drama unfold, a question formed in my heart: What does this osprey know that I need to know? Not just intellectually, but with bone-deep certainty?

The ospreys of Blue Cypress Lake still whisper their wisdom to me in quiet moments of doubt. I think of how they build their homes in one place yet seek provision in another—a reminder that God doesn't always place what we need directly before us. Sometimes the journey itself is part of His design, stretching our wings and teaching us to trust.

I remember that decisive moment of the dive—no hesitation, no fear—just complete surrender to the purpose for which it was created. Faith, perhaps, looks something like this: launching ourselves fully into God's promises, breaking through surfaces, and trusting He'll bring us back up with what we need.

And when I face opposition after receiving a blessing—when the "pelicans" of life pursue what God has just provided—I recall how the osprey's struggle didn't diminish its victory. Even when perfectly aligned with God's purpose, our path won't be free from resistance. Protection doesn't mean absence of struggle; it means provision of strength for the journey ahead.

Those knowing eyes have become my touchstone. What I initially felt as piercing scrutiny, I now understand as something else entirely—the gaze of a creature living in complete alignment with its design. The osprey doesn't question whether fish will be available in distant waters. It doesn't hesitate before the plunge. It doesn't calculate odds of success against effort required. Those eyes hold the certainty of a creature that intimately knows its Creator's provision. Not blindly optimistic, but confidently expectant—a knowing that runs deeper than circumstance or convenience.

I still return to those knowing eyes when doubt creeps in. They remind me that just as the osprey was designed for its purpose—to build in safety, to journey for provision, to dive with certainty, and to rise again—so was I designed for mine.

"For we are God's handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do." (Ephesians 2:10)

Perhaps you're reading this while feeling the weight of your own daily journeys—traveling emotional or spiritual distances just to meet basic needs. Maybe you're diving deep into challenging waters, breaking through surfaces only to face those who would steal your hard-won peace.

The next time you face murky waters or long journeys to find what sustains you, remember the osprey. Remember that God's provision often wait beyond your comfortable shores—visible only to those willing to trust enough to make the journey and take the plunge.

What shores might God be calling you to leave? What depths might He be asking you to dive into? What wonders might be waiting for you beyond your familiar waters?