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"

The Dog, the Cross, and the Grave

In honor of the seventh anniversary of my dad being in heaven, I resurrected this essay on what Easter is really all about.

Have you walked on any graves lately?I've been in a funk lately. In all honesty it's been a rather tough year for me on a personal level. One moment it's New Years Eve and the next it's Easter, the start of spring. Somewhere along the way I celebrated yet another birthday and another wedding anniversary. Somewhere along the way I sold another book and picked up some writing assignments which keep me busy from dawn to dusk. Somewhere along the way I think I lost sight of what is mankind's true reason for being here in the first place. And so I've been doing some reevaluating.

Today I'd thought I'd share my take on the "Big Question" or the "Ultimate Question" with you. You know which one I'm talking about--the one satirist Douglas Adams of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy fame wrote extensively about in his book, Life, The Universe and Everything. The ultimate question the deserves an ultimate answer. It being such a large one, where can I begin but with something familiar to me and work my way out. . .

As every good novelist knows (please, no comments here from my editors and critiquers) you have to intuitively know how your story is going to turn out before you begin it. Sure most people enjoy "character driven" stories--I know I do-- but the writer must have some idea where the characters are heading to before she or he sets them off on their fictional journey towards it. The romance genre is a perfect example. Somewhere along the line, in spite of all misunderstandings or terrible interventions by other usually well-meaning characters, the hero and the heroine have to discover their true love for each other.

Despite what people unfamiliar with the genre think, this doesn't necessarily mean the hero and heroine will end up walking down the aisle together, living together, or even sharing a kiss. All the romance reader wants to know at story's end is whether or not these two people have come to terms with what is in their hearts. Therefore, the romance novel is not so much a "formula story" peopled with cookie-cutter characters and predictable plotting, but a window on an evolving relationship between two individuals. It's the process the protagonists must endure--and not the outcome of it--which is in doubt, and romance fans have come to find great satisfaction in the endless variations on that theme of relationship building.

What's all this nonsense about novel writing have to do with the search for the answer to the "ultimate question to life, the universe and everything?" Well, let me tell you in one word--everything. In order for us to know how to live each day of our short existence on this planet it is essential we know where we are going. In other words, we need to focus on the outcome of our journey, and we need to work on our relationship with the One who ultimately will lead us there.

To clarify further, I'm not talking about going down to the corner store to pick up some hamburger buns for dinner. I'm talking about where we're all going to wind up sooner or later. To be succinct, allow me to quote a line from a popular science fiction movie, spoken by a famous alien from the planet Vulcan: "How we face death is how we face life." Our life's journey ends in the grave, pure and simple.

There's no way around it, so we all must come to grip with this fact. It's the how we deal with this distressing bit of information which separates the women from the girls, the men from the boys, and the humans from the aliens. This is where the relationship bit comes into play.Allow me to digress a moment and tell you a story in order to make my point.

My sister Cathy e-mailed me a digital photo of our father's new headstone. It was put in place a little over a month after the funeral, and she was kind enough to travel back up to Kentucky in order to snap a picture of it. It's very nice as headstones go, and Cathy joked, "I had to stand on top of Daddy in order to take a decent shot. I felt funny doing that. It reminded me of all the 'graveyard etiquette' we learned." I knew exactly what she meant.

When we were young, we used to walk around a cemetery directly behind our grandparents' home near Greer, South Carolina. Both of them now rest in that particular cemetery, but that isn't why that field comes to mind. I remember how our grandmother told us not to "go running on top of people" in the big green field whenever we went on a walk with her. We learned it was the epitome of ill-breeding to dance across someone's grave, and so we politely refrained from doing so.

It makes sense--we certainly shouldn't distress the loved ones of the deceased by chewing up the grass with our heels and possibly kicking over their lovingly placed flower arrangements. By showing respect for the dead, we are showing respect towards the living, loving our neighbors as ourselves as the Golden Rule tells us to do. However,--and this is a big 'however'--this is the only reason people should refrain from trampling on graves.

Let's be honest--the folks six feet under aren't going to care much one way or the other. In fact, I believe a good portion of them aren't really there anyway. Huh? What I'm saying is that, yes, you could dig up their bones and retrieve bits of clothing and keepsakes from their corpses, but they aren't really there anymore.

My father wasn't really there under Cathy's feet while she snapped the photo of his gravestone--his journey's end on earth has springboarded him into a new adventure, an exciting adventure which has no end.You see, despite all my dad's faults he never stopped believing for a second that when his earthly trip was over he wasn't going to meet up with his Lord and Savior and begin a new journey through eternity with Him. This is where "journey" and "relationship" meet.

Just as Jesus rose from the tomb on the third day after his crucifixion and death, all who come to faith in Him--begin a relationship with Jesus--believe that after this brief period of time called life we will do likewise. Our bones rest in the earth for now, but our spirits keep on traveling until they come to our ultimate destination, being one with God. Our trip isn't over just because we're placed in a coffin--it's just begun.

Whenever I'm feeling down, I stop and make myself contemplate where my journey will ultimately end. I think of Jesus, our loving "shepherd," who will guide us "sheep" on this next step of our existence, and that thought snaps me out of any self-made misery. My daily journey doesn't seem so overwhelming and tiresome whenever I think of the "Big Picture" and visualize our "Big Guide" waiting there at Heaven's gate for us.

It's the ultimate romance story, I think--the relationship I have with Jesus here today will be celebrated tomorrow with all believers in Heaven. It should be quite a party. I'm looking forward to meeting up with Dad and lots of other dear friends and relatives. We'll have to lots to talk and joke about--particularly when I tell Dad about how I spotted a stray dog running up to his grave right after the ceremony when we were driving off and did, well, you know, a doggy thing on top of it. . .

Obviously that dog had never been taught any graveyard etiquette! But before you get too upset about it, just stop and think: Maybe this little incident demonstrates a very important truth... One of God's simpler creatures, the dog, demonstrates a faith stronger than we humans possess.

The dog instinctively knew Dad wasn't there.