I’ve always hoped that the crows would come visit me and decide amongst themselves that I was worthy and keep coming back so I could be a REAL member of the crow club on Facebook and report that the crows have given me cute trinkets, solid eye contact and devout loyalty. We have a large murder come through a couple times of year in all their ominousness: a yard full of Crow Mafia strutting about the yard, surveying the place. I always rush to the front window thinking: “pick me, pick me!” For exactly what I want them to pick me for I’m not sure. I mean, if they stayed, the neighbors would talk and I might be declared some kind of witch. And there would be no peace. Crows are very loud. But for some reason I always have this weird desire to impress crows. But as of yet, they have not been impressed by me or my yard and always fly off with a metaphoric cape flip. “This place bores us.”
A raven would also be cool. Not like Edgar Allen Poe’s ‘nevermore’ raven. I’m currently not grieving, at least not in an unhealthy, hopeless way.
More like a “Game of Thrones” raven. I could send urgent messages to my adult children.
“Winter is coming. Don’t forget to put your snow tires on before the lines get too long.”
“Call your queen mother. She thinks you might be dead.”
“Don’t forget to say hi to God once in a while. He misses you.”
Imagine the impact it would have, getting those messages from your mother via raven versus a text. I’d ask the raven to linger a bit and murmur a creepy word or two for impact.
But, alas, neither crow nor raven has entered my life for more than a fleeting moment.
However, the sparrows HAVE come to stay in multitudes. Sparrows, like Siwinskis, are rather prolific and over the last few years, a large group of them has taken up permanent residency under the lean-to in the backyard much to Grant’s chagrin. He wants to eventually turn that area into a place for his various grills and smokers. But because I feed them, along with the chubby squirrels who steal from the birdfeeder and the mice, who boldly venture out from the neighbor’s side of the fence to partake what is dropped on the ground, they stay, and multiply. It’s a Cinderella back yard, except with weeds and no cute little hats.
The other morning I was in the back yard with the dogs while they did their business, when Jet, our hundred and forty-five pound black lab, froze near the lean-to and put his head down low to the ground, looking at something I could not at first identify. He was standing over it protectively, his nose about an inch from it, sniffing in like Ferdinand did with the roses.
I drew near enough to see it was a baby sparrow, wings not quite fully formed, hopping around rather fearfully, unsure of what to do. Bella came up and investigated as well, wagging her tail while Jet remained protectively planted over it. I carefully steered the dogs away from the baby and put them inside. Neither would purposefully hurt the baby, but might accidentally step on him and that would be the end of that.
To me, the lean-to currently looks like a death trap. All the yard tools, stored in barrels with sharp sides exposed, the wheelbarrow, old fencing material and various buckets full of balls, bats, and misc sporting equipment that we maybe use once a year are all stored haphazardly under the area where the sparrows are nested. It’s a miracle the baby didn’t land in a less safe or unescapable place. I tried to scooch him (or her) onto a piece of cardboard without touching him (Grant later told me that it’s an old wives tale about the mama rejecting a baby touched by a human) but he kept scurrying into the depths of the lean-to chaos. So I decided to just let him be for a minute and go for my morning swim after putting a little bit of bird seed on the ground near the baby.
I swam for a bit, wondering if I should just let nature take its course. I mean, maybe the baby was pushed out of the nest for a reason. Maybe he was an asshole who needed some tough love. But then maybe one of his siblings pushed him thinking it was funny, only to have it end tragically.
Then mama bird came out in full force during my swim, swooping and diving over the pool and then landing by the baby staring at me with her mouth open. I watched her get birdseed off the ground and feed the baby and then stare back at me with her mouth open. She repeated this several times, rendering me completely distracted from my swim. Sighing, I got out to see what I could do. She was clearly frantic and wanting me to help.
There are hundreds of mentions of birds in the bible (doves, swallows, sparrows, ravens) and as I was carefully moving the items in the way of my attempted rescue, I pondered the words in Matthew 6:25-34, “Look at the birds in the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they are?” I have often turned to these words in times of deep anxiety or worry.
But I sometimes find myself in a one way argument with God about this, as I do not love the idea that the bible says humans are more valuable than any other creature God has made. I also think that birds work WAAAAY harder than I do and don’t complain at all about having to build nests or find food. Nor do they cry and worry when their babies leave the nest to make their own choices (when their wings have formed of course). They just do their jobs and let the rest go with great optimism and faith. And while I could see first hand that mama sparrow and baby were highly concerned about their current situation, I don’t think that most creatures ruminate past the moment at hand like we humans do. Such energy we expend dwelling on what might happen or has already happened.
After locating the baby bird, all nestled down in a tiny little opening in the concrete against the wall, I got a paper towel and the pool net attachment and scooped the baby up and gently held him still with the paper towel until I could get him close to the nest area where he scrambled quickly into his nest with no fanfare. And though I bet the baby told the mama about the black monster and the white, dripping wet giant who saved his life, my guess is they both moved on pretty quickly.
I have NOT moved on. I continue to think about the little sparrows who see each moment as an optimistic ‘evermore’.
Maybe it’s our rumination that makes us valuable to God (at least in terms of our role in the story of creation): because they (and the rest of non-human creation) don’t give redemption a second thought. Being in the now of each moment IS eternity. Meanwhile, humans think and therefore have a choice in saying yes or no to life, which can put us in the prison of overthinking/not thinking or action/non-action.
God tells us in Romans 8:18-23 “…creation waits with eager expectation the revelation of the children of God…”
Are humans, the ones who are supposed to be the stewards on earth, the last ones to figure out what true freedom is while the rest of creation is doing a metaphoric forehead slap waiting for us to break ourselves out of free will jail so that the plan finally comes together?
I know that saving one little sparrow does not make much of a dent in fixing the many messes I have made in the world. Nor does bragging that I saved a life help with my humility. But since the rescue I hear the sparrows sing “evermore” from the nest under the lean-to and I am encouraged to act with love in each moment.
This is where heaven lives.
Sorry Grant, you will have to find some other place to store your outdoor cooking stuff.
Also: I named the baby bird “Lenny” for those of you who need a little nod to Poe’s poem “The Raven”.
If you know you know.
peaceof8 