A Bird Strikes the Window

A bang on the window startled me. A moment later I realize it must have been a bird striking the window of our house, so I went to investigate, ready to be sickened if the bird had broken its neck and was dead.

But there it was. Still, on the deck, but with its eyes open. I approached slowly, and it didn’t fly away.

Always loathe to interfere with nature’s ways, I retreated into the house. But I carried my fears with me. What if it is permanently paralyzed?

After some time I checked again. Still there. Still, but eyes open.

Back in the house, and back and forth a few times.

Wouldn’t you know it. It wasn’t one of those “undesirable” House Sparrows or Starlings. This was a brand new kind of bird for our farm. A Rose-breasted Grosbeak—a new-for-us species that I had just discovered in the tree-line northern border to the farm.

I fretted all the more, not wanting a casualty of this new—more “desirable” visitor.

I checked once more, and it had flown away. I could breathe better. I could smile.

Jesus, of course, advised us never to worry. We, of little faith, can’t add an hour to our lives or an inch to our stature by worrying.

To help us he said, “Look at the birds of the air. They neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.”

But I have a lot to ask our Lord. I need answers.

One question comes from watching the birds. I see those Chickadees stashing lots of sunflower seeds, and Blue Jays bury lots of peanuts to get ready for winter. Are they doing it out of worry?

And what is it that makes us humans—us “of little faith”—have so much anxiety? Is it not just about everything that makes us “special” in the great family tree of living things?

Don’t we worry because we think in stories. We carry our web work of memories with us and knit them together into stories. We think of what happened the last time the price of gasoline shot up, or the price of stocks plunged, or we had harsh arguments with someone we loved, and we automatically worry: “Here we go again.”

And don’t we have high anxiety over meaning. Life must have some meaning. Our lives must have purpose and meaning, and when the moments refuse to be strung together in a beautiful garland, or tapestry, we see ourselves falling into a black hole of the worst kind: meaninglessness.

Is it fair, Jesus, for you to pick on us merely for being human—people who seek meaning, and who weave together stories for our lives? And if there are holes in the tapestry that refuse to be filled in, is it not that the Meaning-Master of it all has let us down? That is the possibility that is at the core of all our anxiety.

One more question, Jesus. What does it mean that the Father feeds the birds, yet billions of them die each year striking the glass of buildings, and being eaten by cats? Do you write that off because it’s just God’s way of keeping populations manageable…and feeding the cats?

I imagine, Jesus, that above all, you say “look.” You seem to be telling me to keep looking, and be willing to rethink the stories I am telling myself, and the meaning I am hungering for.

When I look at the birds, and into the eyes of our sheep and our dogs, I get this immediate release from anxiety. I don’t know why, but I imagine it has something to do with BIGNESS. There must be something bigger than my stories and my understanding of meaning. Death is death to my dying dogs. Just death. Of course they ease into it because they are getting a sedative, and I am stroking them, and they know they are not alone. But even that Wildebeest being taken down by the Crocodile in the nature videos, and even the lonely little Rose-breasted Grosbeak on the deck—I see them all not fighting—not that much—not like humans with their stories and their meaning. Yes, what Dylan Thomas wrote about his dad’s death—“Rage, rage against the dying of the light”—seems right for us. But aren’t the animals saying something bigger? Isn’t all creation saying something about death and life being part of the same righteous rhythm? And a rhythm not set to our stories and meanings, but something beyond.

So, I will keep looking. I will try to weave into my own tapestry some bigger understanding of what it means not to worry. It is impossible, given my humanity. I will always tell myself stories that are misleading. I will always mistake meaning for reality.

I will always need to be with my dogs, and be surrounded by dandelions and Rose-breasted Grosbeaks. Living or dead.

Even in the midst of my anxiety, I must look.