The entry below was part of my pondering last fall when the youngest of our eleven nestlings flew-the-coop and went off to college. Today, I broke up the dirt in the window boxes and tucked the perennials into their summer spots. Looking over my shoulder, I smiled to think that Mother Wren is probably perched on a branch nearby waiting for me to vacate her territory so she can tend to her family plans.
How quickly the seasons roll around again. Paradoxically, while she feathers her nest, I have re-launched another of my fledglings who came home, packed up stuff, and is off to nest-crafting of her own. Is she ready? Is she strong? Will she remember to take her vitamins and to wear a sweater (and socks and a scarf and boots, since she is headed for the north country)?
Lord
You promise that a sparrow does not fall without your knowing. You programmed those little hummingbirds to keep flapping their tiny wings to make the 500 mile migration flight of 18-22 hours. You bring the mama wren back spring-after-spring.
Why should I feel discouraged?
Why should the shadows come?
Why should my heart feel lonely
And long for heaven and home?
When Jesus is my portion
A constant friend is He
His eye is on the sparrow
And I know He watches me
I sing because I'm happy
I sing because I'm free
His eye is on the sparrow
And I know He watches me
His eye is on the sparrow....and the wren....and the hummingbird.....and certainly my children. They are really His, anyway.
Neo-nesting
September 2013
I am a mother (not a mom, by the way) experiencing for the first time in thirty-seven years of child-rearing the reality of there not being anyone hungry, thirsty, wet, crying or following me into bathroom. Preferring to think of my nest as full of memories and anticipation rather than "empty", I am tagging this season "neo" which simply means recent, revised, modified, new and I am navigating the journey with reflections on where I have been, what I have learned and how I can listen to the heartbeat of God for new direction.
I used to be afraid of failing at something that really mattered to me,
but now I’m more afraid of succeeding at things that don’t matter.
-Bob Goff
Change of Season
It is, indeed, a new season. I am stirring the first pot of chile on the stove. Searching for pumpkin-everything recipes. Eager to pick apples, build a fire in the hearth, pull on the down comforter at night. Part of the fall ritual involves putting to bed the flower pots that held the annuals....geraniums, impatience, begonias and that wonderful, prolific sweet potato vine. I chuckle as I pull the wren nest, now empty, from the window box outside my kitchen. Where has the mother bird gone? For years now, she has waited until the boxes are filled with new spring blooms. I guess she either desires the surroundings to be pretty (as did I when laboring with my babies in birthing-suites instead of delivery rooms) or more likely, she chooses to move in after the decor is settled so our planting does not disturb her nursery project. Then mama wren begins rummaging in "her corner", toting leaves and sticks, preparing her nest before laying the eggs.
I have carefully lifted the nest, almost embedded in the soil, and brought it to the small table on my porch. Here I observe and contemplate correlations between this feathered mama and myself. Here I ponder how she faithfully worked in brooding silence and determination to craft the shelter for her young. They had come and gone so quickly, maturing from inanimate eggs to gaping, squawking mouths that chirped incessantly (and loudest, I might add, right before they left the nest). She perched on the periphery as a sentinel, fearless in flight toward me or another onlooker should we venture too close to her babies. Then, one day, those young chirppers were silent. They were ready to leave, to try their wings, to take flight. There was no ceremony. No particular cue. But I could see it in their eyes. I think she knew it, too.
I wanted to be there for the launch, to witness the first flying attempts, to watch her coaching. But I turned my back toward a moment in my own day...and they were gone. No traces of anyone bumbling or stumbling as they took a deep breath, held their li'l beaks and took that first dive. They were ready to fly. One moment they were here and then, suddenly gone. Their Creator had programmed the time and place and forewithal for them to take to their wings. Would He not do the same for those launched from my nest?
And what of the mother bird? Where is she now? Is this considered her "off season"? Sometimes, I see her sitting on the trellis where she used to supervise her young. Sometimes, I think I hear her familiar song or recognize her in flight. No doubt she has a life somewhere, doing something. Her nest, I muse, is beautiful. It is fragile. It is uninhabited. But it is full of mystery and intrigue for me. Although dry and aging, it speaks of faithfulness, diligence, nurturing, protection, and hope. And because every analogy breaks down at some point, the parallel between her life and mine going-forward does not work. She cannot speak of a heart tuned to listen for His leading in the new season. But just as surely as she will return to the window box next spring, my Creator has a new, revised, modified work to build through me and He will be the wind beneath my wings in the neo-nesting.
Teach us to number our days so that we can gain hearts of wisdom.
Psalm 90:12
No comments:
Post a Comment