As I continue meditate on the winter that swarms around me, I like to think about the Arctic tern.  The Arctic tern is a remarkable bird.  It summers in the Arctic, its striking black head poking up from the deep green grasses and tundra, making its nest and raising its young, preparing its offspring for the next stage of their lives.
     Come August, however, the Arctic tern leaves the Arctic.  Where does it go?  All the way to Antarctica.  All the way to the other end of the globe.  Every August, this relatively small bird flies 12,000 long, long miles south, braving cold, wind, and all manner of predator to summer in the foothills of Antarctica.  It's an amazing journey, a stunning feat of determination and endurance.
     Then, as Antarctica's winter looms, the Arctic tern flies all the way back to the Arctic. It navigates those 12,000 miles all over again.  One wonders what drives it; one marvels at its single-mindedness.  Sure, we can attribute it to instinct, to an urge it cannot dismiss, and that would be true.  Perhaps the more cynical of us might suggest that its lengthy migration tells us that God does not know what he is doing.  Why would he have this tiny bird journey all these miles, year after year after year?
     Maybe God could have done it differently.  Maybe, however, the Arctic tern's incredible peregrinations tell us not about the ineptness of God but about the astonishment of the planet, the awesome way that its systems fit so neatly together. Maybe the Arctic tern's travels tell us that whether or not we believe in God, we cannot help but wonder at the wonder of this world, a world we did not make, yet a world which we believe is made for us.
     And why?