Falling to the Ground Outside

Today I came home to news that four baby robins were found in our yard.

Two were still alive in a makeshift nest my daughter and son built in a cardboard box. I buried the other two.

I can’t tell you how this unexpected situation just brought a flood of emotions over me all evening. Part of it was just reconnecting to the feelings of hope and helplessness I felt so many times in my youth, when I was Josiah’s age (6) or Lydia’s (15) and various ages in-between. Storms were often the reason baby birds were found in my yard growing up. And I recall a visit to Tennessee where two baby birds had to be dealt with. Tonight, the two sleep. I’m hoping we can take them to an animal sanctuary tomorrow. I don’t have it in me to do the horrible merciful thing (though my vet said they could perform that, if necessary).

One summer in my youth we kept a baby bird going for about two weeks. And one morning we found him in his nest, dead. And it was terribly sad for us kids. Another part of it, the wave of emotion, is just the sheer vulnerability of both these babies and my daughter, my son, even Beth and me. We want them to survive and grow and fly and live.

But nature plays a numbers game, I guess.

I read that nearly two-thirds of baby birds that remain in the nest still don’t survive. These two have little chance of living very long. I know so many can comfort themselves in dismissing their insignificance, perhaps seeing that the only significance of these two is that we found them and took them in. I suppose there are or have been dozens within a mile or so of our home suffer a worse fate – and without our knowledge. And yet we heart-heavy people with all our resources can only do so much to help them. Mostly we can watch and wait. And let nature be nature.

But, hey — I know…

I know there are kids in their final days at St. Jude’s or Vandy Children’s hospital and countless other places.
I know in the past week kids and parents and people of all shapes and sizes and walks of life have died suddenly, unexpectedly, tragically.
Dare I consider the children orphaned and left to fend for themselves in the past few weeks in our cruel world?

They are all far more precious and valuable than a few birds.And I guess therein this sadness takes root, and the sense of darkened hope I have over these two little ones resting in my garage. “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.”

Oh, how I hate this. This death. This inexplicable finding of four little birds who should live and grow and declare the glory of God. Instead I see the curse, the curse of death. Death carried out, and death waiting to act again.

And trying to reconcile this with my Father’s care is just so hard to do at times like this. Yes, I understand the theological premise of it all. I understand the timelessness of Christ on the cross and the infinite nature of grace. I remain unmoved in the certainty of His resurrection and his return.

It’s just that today I see innocence, defeat, hopelessness, struggle, pain.
And loneliness.

All I can do is trust the Spirit groans on my behalf. Right now it is just beyond my will to pray. Not because of these baby robins, but because of the weight of the world of death on me, and all the curses that fall, even before death comes. Thorns. Thistles. Uncertainty. Darkness. So pardon me here for venting these thoughts at the end of a weary day.

All the time, God is good.

But sometimes I feel like the presence of God is nowhere near me. Sometimes I feel like I have fallen outside his care. But it’s a feeling, an irrational emotion, certainly a deceptive response amid material experience…

A feeling I hope will pass by morning, when I awake to the sound of song birds… and mourning doves.

Photo Credit: © 2015 Lydia Cranford

Epilogue

Last Tuesday I wrote the post, above. Sure enough, Wednesday was greeting with the songs of mature robins, morning doves, and a variety of other song birds. “Jem” (short for Jeremy) and “Scout” (the smaller, weaker robin) were greeted at 6AM by Lydia for another feeding, and again at 7AM. And every hour thereafter. They had really bounced back from the day before when we found them. She took them outside, secure in their makeshift nest in a box, and nurtured them. Occasionally she held them, but only briefly. This continued into Saturday. And on Saturday, Jem (the bigger one) was a bit more feisty, flapping his wings and popping around the yard just a bit. Sunday, even more so, with Jem not really wanting to be in the box another night. (We kept it covered with a cookie cooling rack, creating a makeshift cage.) Earlier that day I acquired an abandoned robin’s nest from a neighbor. Liddy and I placed that into a small wooden CD crate, then attached that to the trunk of their primary nest’s tree in our front yard. We let them in it that afternoon, but they perched on the edge rather than nestle into it. They were clearly moving on from nestlings to fledglings.

Memorial Day, Lydia again fed the birds at 6 AM. Having stayed up late the night before (with me to watch a movie), I had her go back to bed. I got up at 7 and fed them again. They were rarin’ to go! And so I took their box with the cookie rack into the front yard and placed them in the second nest we had set up just the day before. This time they hopped onto the edge of the nest and flew down to he ground, about 3.5′ below. Wow.

And then, there she was. Or maybe he – still not sure. A robin. Mom or dad. But I backed off and watched. And momma came along and fed Jem. A minute or two later, Scout. WOW. After six days, momma and daddy picked up where they left off. No teary reunion. No formalities.

They knew the site of their babies, and they knew their sound. Even though they sounded different, these robins knew these babies were theirs. And they got into action, feeding them throughout the day. By late evening, momma and daddy were still caring for them. We lost track of Jem, but I think he’s nearby in the woods behind our houses. From what I read the mommas and daddies know where there babies are and stay with them.

That’s the story of these two little birds. What happens next is up to nature. I’d like to believe it’s in God’s hands, and indeed we’ve included them in our prayers. We want them to live, to be blessed and to be a blessing back to the world.

As for me, I resisted getting involved so Lydia could be as engaged in this as possible (and she was definitely the lead caretaker!). But I did find myself wanting to help, feeding them, holding them, letting them perch on my finger, helping with their accommodations, and finally helping them reconnect with their parents. That felt like a miracle to me, but it’s part of God’s design. As today wore on with this transition, I shepherded the little ones way from the road and into safer areas, but mostly just observed from time to time. By evening I was feeling that same wave of emotion washing over me as last week, a wave driven by uncertainty and carrying the same elements as before.

It’s not that I’m sad to see them go. But as Beth posts in her wonderful blog post today, we can’t help but to feel what we feel knowing that they’re not ready to fly, while knowing that in order from them to fly, they must go through this stage.

“Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?”