Pursuing the poetical, paradoxical, metaphorical, lyrical, artistical, majestical, and mystical.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Chickadee Feathers


The flies have been pests in the garden and yard this year. I put out a few fly traps and some fly paper strips around the yard. It is a gruesome solution, but I was desperate. 

I took down the gooey sticky paper strips though. Never to be used in my yard or life again. Never. I didn't know. Now I do. 

As I was watering, I looked over to see a young chickadee crucified to one of them. Its wings were stuck fast, spread wide. It took awhile to loosen the little fellow. I brought him in the house and used warm water and soap to clean as much of the stickiness off as possible. His heart was thumping too hard for its size. I separated each feather and blew gently to dry them off. Many were missing, still stuck to the death trap not intended for a baby bird. 

I set him gently in a sheltered spot. He immediately tried to fly. It was an unsuccessful attempt. My hurting heart couldn't follow him where he hid under some brush. I couldn't save him from the troubles he was in. I hope he lived, but have strong doubts that he could heal properly. 

Grieving, all that day I kept thinking about "not one sparrow falls to the ground without your father knowing and noticing." 

There was a time about ten years ago when I truly believed that he cared about sparrows more than he did about me. It is because I had always misunderstood the verse. 

I thought he kept the sparrow from falling. Why then, couldn't he keep us from danger and sickness. Why didn't he help us when we were in dire straights? Why was he silent most the time. Why didn't he act? 

Now I live and think and trust differently. These things I know:

He sees. 
He notices. 
He cares. 
He's always there. 
I'm never alone. 
He waits to bind up my wounds gently, with profound care. 
He feels my heart pounding too hard. 
He calms my wild eyes. 
He washes the stickiness off. 
He binds the broken parts. 
Puts me in a safe place. 
He hopes that I fly again. 
He does. 
He loves me this I know. 
Every single hair of my head is counted. 

Even the ones that are falling out by the bushel, making it easier to number them I'm sure.