Deacon Jude Tam Tran

THE BIRD

“By wisdom a house is built, and through understanding it is established; through knowledge its rooms are filled with rare and beautiful treasures.” — Proverbs 24:3–4

I, a very good painter, suppose I should begin with a confession: I am terrible at deadlines—especially when the person setting them wears a crown and can legally remove my head.

When the Emperor summoned me centuries ago and said, “Paint me a bird,” I bowed so low my forehead nearly learned calligraphy from the floor. I accepted with confidence, because confidence is what emperors like. Also, I truly believed I could do it.

What I did not say—because wisdom sometimes looks like silence—was when.

Months passed. Then a year. Then another. Somewhere between the second winter and the third spring, I began to sense that patience was no longer the Emperor’s dominant spiritual gift.

Courtiers whispered. Advisors frowned. Somewhere in the palace, a clock ticked with judgment.

Then came the day he arrived unannounced.

I heard his sandals before I saw his shadow. If you’ve never heard imperial sandals, imagine the sound of authority mixed with mild irritation and a very expensive shoe budget. I was standing in my studio, staring at a blank canvas—yes, a blank one—because irony has a sense of humor and enjoys danger.

“WHERE,” the Emperor thundered, “IS MY BIRD?”

Now, this is where wisdom becomes practical. You do not argue with a king. You do not over-explain. And you certainly do not say, “Trust the process,” unless you enjoy exile.

So, I said nothing.

Instead, I picked up my brush.

I dipped it into ink and let my hand move the way it had learned to move—without fear, without hesitation, without needing to think. In less than an hour, the bird appeared. Its wings were caught mid-breath. Its feathers knew the wind. Its eye looked back at us, alert, alive, slightly smug.

The room went quiet. Even the Emperor forgot to breathe.

Then he asked the question that had been sitting in his chest for years. “If you could do this in one hour… why did it take you years?”

This, my dear friend, is where I finally spoke.

I walked to the cabinet behind him and opened it. Sketches spilled out like secrets that had waited patiently to be told. Feathers—hundreds of them. Wings folded, wings rising, wings failing. Birds perched. Birds startled. Birds dying. Birds reborn in ink. Studies so detailed even the birds would have asked for royalties.

“These,” I said gently, “are the bird.”

You see, I did not spend years avoiding the painting. I spent years becoming worthy of it.

Here is the humor of life: to the untrained eye, preparation looks exactly like procrastination. To the impatient, silence looks like laziness. To power, unseen work feels like disrespect. But wisdom knows better.

I did not rush because I respected the Emperor too much to give him something shallow.
And I did not panic when he delayed his anger—because panic is what amateurs do. Masters prepare.

The Emperor stared at the sketches, then at the bird, then at me. For the first time, he did not look like a ruler. He looked like a student.

That day, I learned something important about dealing with kings—whether they sit on thrones or live inside our heads.

First: never confuse speed with mastery. Anyone can move fast. Few can move true.

Proverbs 24:3–4 says, “By wisdom a house is built, and through understanding it is established; through knowledge its rooms are filled with rare and beautiful treasures.” Notice it does not say, “By hurry.” Or “By pressure.” Or “By fear of disappointing people.”

Second: respect time, because time reveals truth. Ecclesiastes tells us, “To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.” Even birds need time—time to be observed, misunderstood, studied, and finally understood.

I could have painted the bird in the first month. It would have looked like a bird. But it would not have been one.

And that is the great danger of our everyday lives. We want results without roots. We want clarity without confusion. We want calling without preparation. We want the painting without the years of sketches hidden in the cabinet.

So many of us stand before blank canvases—careers, relationships, faith, purpose—and panic because nothing seems to be happening. But perhaps something is happening, just quietly.

Perhaps you are not late. Perhaps you are learning the wings.

When the Emperor finally spoke, his voice was softer. “I thought you were wasting time.”

I smiled. “No, Majesty. I was investing it.”

Here is my wisdom for you, offered not as a painter now, but as a fellow human:

Do not despise the unseen seasons. Do not rush what your soul has not yet learned. Do not measure your life by how quickly you can impress others, but by how deeply you understand what you are called to do.

One day, someone will walk into your life—an employer, a child, a friend, a crisis—and demand your bird. And when they do, you will either panic… or pick up the brush with calm hands.

May you spend your years well.
May your cabinets be full of learning.
And when the moment comes, may your one hour reveal a lifetime of wisdom.