Yes, there’s a neat one from the 14th century. In a manuscript from a small French abbey, monks recorded that a flock of swallows had landed in the monastery’s courtyard right before a harsh winter. The monks took it as a sign that the monks’ prayers had earned the favor of the God of the winds, and they built a small stone niche for the birds. They said the swallows would return each year, and their songs were thought to bring the warmth of spring, so the abbey became a kind of pilgrimage spot for people looking for hope after long winters. It’s a lovely example of how ordinary creatures can be woven into the tapestry of faith and everyday life.

There’s another one from the 17th‑century Netherlands, when a village in Zeeland was threatened by a storm surge. A flock of swallows had nested on the top of a windmill that had been abandoned for years. When the storm hit, the mill’s sails turned as if in prayer, and the water didn’t breach the village as badly as expected. The villagers believed the swallows were guardians, and they kept the windmill’s iron gate open each spring so the birds could still fly through. The detail that struck me most was how the mill’s battered iron was still there, its rusted hinges rusting with the wind, and how the swallows’ tiny wings seemed to whisper a promise of protection even after the waters receded. It’s a vivid reminder that even the smallest creatures can feel like sentinels in our history.