As a pair of house finches eagerly set up housekeeping in a new hanging fern, my dear man delivered his customary, gentle reminder: “You know that you have a history of interfering with mother nature.” As his words trailed off, I muttered “guilty as charged.”
It was true, especially since that “harmless” black snake consumed an entire brood in the exact same spot the previous year. No wonder I was on high alert!
This season, when that first tiny egg appeared in that fresh fern, I kicked into gear, peering in each morning while angling precipitously on my tippy toes. “Now there are three!” I rushed in to announce. Then four, then five. The brood was now complete. I cooed to them, sequestered as they were in their shells and told them “it will be alright.” But, I knew from experience that it could be otherwise. Nature, the order of things. Sometimes it isn’t pretty, and “fair” doesn’t enter into the equation. Snakes get hungry, too, I reasoned. That rational reminder didn’t stop me from standing guard as often as possible over “my” five little eggs. When a few days passed with no sign of the predator, I became keenly aware of my sense of gratitude. As I gently “rocked” the fern, I prayed that these five would safely hatch and have a go at this experience of being alive.
It was a rainy, slightly cool evening when I spotted the first born chick. Soon two, then three, now four and five furry little things as delicate in appearance as the fleeting dandelion. My prayer that they would come forth into this beautiful, uncertain world had been answered! Heedless of my dear man’s words, I leaned in again, now blew my warm breath in their direction and continued my prayerful vigilance. In my mind, we were building trust. Whenever their mom or dad saw me nearby, they would squawk, but seemed to settle down as they became accustomed to my persistent, harmless presence. And yet, I was once again guilty of interference.
In due time, these little dandelion-like beings morphed into recognizable house finches, their emerging wings, their “superpower,” now undeniable. And then, one bright Sunday morning, I realized that the five were at last strong enough and ready enough to embrace what they were born to do – take flight. The question of readiness was on me; with mixed emotions, I knew that my empty nest syndrome was about to begin.
As I went inside to attend to the everyday, little did I know that the timeless miracle was unfolding outside. When I returned to peer into the nest, all but one of my little birds had trusted their instinct and taken flight. Their lone remaining sibling fretted about the well worn nest, caught between the known and the unknown, the safety of staying put and the fear of taking flight. I moved in close to this little one and whispered “You can do it. You can. You can do it.” Only God can testify to the truth of this. Trusting that, I will tell you that a few moments thereafter, the lone bird hopped to the nest’s edge, looked out at the great unknown and, like a toddler taking its first steps, flapped its wings and took off. That little bird, the last one, trusted those new wings and made it about five yards to a scraggly old bush – then clumsily landed.
I’ll not forget that few-seconds’ journey anytime soon. Fear, flights and landings. Something we humans can relate to. It’s a familiar story; a miracle that never gets old.
