The Sparrow

I sing because I'm happy; I sing because I'm free--
For His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.
--C. D. Martin, "His Eye is on the Sparrow"

Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of
them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your
Father. And even the very hairs of your head are all
numbered. So don't be afraid; you are worth more than many
sparrows.
--Matthew 10:29-31 (NIV)

I don't consider myself much of a "bird person," but on
occasion I have tried to help a poor feathered friend or two
in trouble. Our former home in West Texas was surrounded by
four large trees, a rarity and a blessing in that dusty part
of the world. Hundreds of birds made their nests in our
trees, and we were lucky to observe many species over the
years--from the comical red-headed woodpecker and the flashy
male cardinal on down to the lowly sparrow and the common
house wren. The birds were our pets in a way, and we
looked after them the best we could. Several times we
brought injured birds to others for mending, and it gave us
a good feeling to know we had given them a new lease on
life.

We found our share of dead birds, of course, particularly
after wind and hail storms. One sunny day, however, I heard
a loud whack at the front picture window. As I
stepped out onto the porch, I immediately surmised what had
happened: A large, strikingly beautiful yellow-breasted
bird which hadn't seen the glass had attempted to swoop
through what he thought was an open window into our house.
Apart from his oddly twisted neck, there wasn't a scratch on
the magnificent creature. My daughters and I gently placed
his body in a shoe box and buried him in our side yard
alongside some other birds we had interred previously. We said a short prayer and marked his grave with a plastic heart decoration that had once topped a Valentine
cupcake.

It is the baby birds, fallen out of the nest too soon to
survive on their own, which have always given me the most
heartache. Whenever something like this happened,
we would frantically call the headmistress of the local Episcopal school, the town's resident bird expert. She is a kind yet practical person who always seemed to give us the same advice: "Place the baby back up in the closest tree which it probably fell from. If the mother can find it and feed it, it will survive. If she can't, then it's going to be eaten by the cats. Either way, it's what God and nature intended."

How many times our hearts were broken as we tried to rescue
some poor fallen chick who just wouldn't cooperate. I remember one day my daughters and I constantly placed one ornery fledgling, who was big enough to hop but not fly quite yet, back up in the crook of a tree only to see it leap to the ground moments later.

"Look, you stupid bird, we're trying to save you from our
neighbors' cats! Trust me!" I yelled at it, but it was hopeless. Soon dusk fell and we were forced to give up our rescue attempt. The next morning, we could find neither hide nor feather of it.

This morning on my walking route I found myself once again
in a similar situation. Two newborn birds had fallen out of their nest. I found them in the middle of the sidewalk, and I could hear the mother bird singing frantically for them to come home. They must have been there all night, as they were both too weak to peep. I scooped up the first frail chick and placed it in the tree where I gathered their nest was located, then turned to rescue its sibling.

This bird would have none of it. It had just enough strength to flutter off in the direction of a garbage can placed at the curb for trash collection, where it decided to hide itself underneath. The can was heavy and I tried to move it carefully, but I must have crushed the little sparrow underneath. I knew it was dead as I retrieved its still body and placed it at the foot of the tree. Breakfast for the cats. "What God and nature intended," I sighed.

This morning the baby bird's death really struck home. I couldn't help but shed tears over the hopelessness of it all--how its poor mother would never understand what had become of her child. I thought about how only the day before a dear friend of mine back in West Texas had buried her own firstborn child. He was a young man on the cusp of adulthood, blessed with a loving mom and step-dad and two little sisters who idolized him. He "fell out of the nest" two days before while playing around with a handgun.

Accidents like this happen all the time. You read about them in the newspaper, hear about them on the TV and radio and sigh, "Oh, dear, not again. When will people ever learn to keep their firearms away from children." These words offer little comfort to the grieving. I can only imagine how my friends must feel. Like the wind blowing a bird down from the tree, there just wasn't enough
time for them to place their beloved son back up in the protection of the branches. I know they would have kept on trying, even after the darkness came.

Questions remain. Are we not worth more than the sparrows? Is this tragedy what God intended? Is He watching over us? Why do little birds have to fall out of the nest? Are we ever truly safe in this "veil of tears?" The Psalmist sings:

Even the sparrow has found a home,
and the swallow a nest for herself,
where she may have her young--
a place near your altar,
O Lord Almighty, my King and my God.
Blessed are those who dwell in you house;
they are forever praising you.
--Psalm 84:3-4

Perhaps the only way to find the answers we seek and to reach our ultimate dwelling place is to fall--fall into His arms, gathering strength from the branches of the cross itself.

"Trust me!" says the Father through His only begotten Son who died on a tree to give eternal life. Then no longer are we sparrows without a nest but sons and daughters with a heavenly home.

Children of the heavenly Father,
Safely in His bosom gathered,
Nestling bird nor star in heaven
Such a refuge e'er was given.
--Caroline V. Sandell Berg, tr. Ernest W. Olson, "Children
of the Heavenly Father"