Rarely does a week go by when I don’t find myself invoking the Law of Relativity. You’ll often hear me say, “Well, THAT could have been a lot worse!” Beckie, my wife, has heard it so many times she’s occasionally grown irritated when I’ve reminded her, “We have to look at the eternal perspective.”

I’ve had more than a few moments that illustrate this principle. One that comes to mind is when we’re running late and traffic suddenly grinds to a halt. The first reaction, of course, is frustration—especially when you’ve got somewhere to be. But then, after creeping forward for a mile or two and passing a bad crash, it hits me: Had we been just a minute or two earlier, that might have been us.

I see this same principle in the house we live in now. Back in the spring of 2000, we were so eager to move in that a few projects didn’t get finished first. One of those was the finish carpentry—which, I’ll admit, is still not quite done twenty years later. Another was about fifteen feet of soffit, just outside our bedroom window on the northeast corner of the roof. Once we moved in, the urgency faded, and it stayed that way.

That window was right above our bed’s headboard, and I loved sleeping with it open to feel the cool night air. That first spring, I’d often wake up to the sound of chirping birds nearby. It was nature’s perfect alarm clock, and I genuinely enjoyed it. Around that same time, I had come across a quote from Joseph Addison: “I value my garden more for being full of blackbirds than of cherries, and very frankly give them fruit for their songs.” That sentiment helped me appreciate the birds’ songs even more.

But before long, I realized the chirping wasn’t just outside—it was inside the unfinished soffit. I’d hear wings flapping and tiny clawed feet click-click-clicking inside the roof. The chirping would pause, then resume as the parent birds—probably starlings—came and went. They had found the open soffit, gone all the way up to the ridge, and nested in the far corner of the roof. The morning music was coming from newly hatched chicks, living just above our heads.

Because of Addison’s words, I was able to see the beauty in the inconvenience. It wasn’t an ideal nesting spot for either of us, but I found joy in their songs. Eventually, after the chicks had grown and flown, I cleaned it out, sealed the soffit, and finally finished the job.

Maybe I was annoyed at the birds’ choice at first—honestly, I don’t remember. What I do remember is speaking at a sacrament meeting at our local assisted care facility before I had cleaned it out. I shared the story, quoted Addison, and spoke about finding joy in unexpected places. Even then, I was learning to spot the good in a bad situation.

Life’s hard moments are always easier for me to navigate when I remember this: “It could have been so much worse.”

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