I’d offered to help him move from his home of many years into assisted living. He pushed boxes onto the porch and I carried them to the van. On the stoop, by the front door, there was a small, ceramic bluebird. I asked him if we ought not pack it. He said, “That bluebird’s always brought me good luck. I’ll take it with me when I lock up and go.” I thought about it some, about a man who gets his luck from a ceramic bluebird, and about my God who could do good works through the same ceramic bluebird.