The birds

The baby birds are dead.

We came home yesterday to find one lying on the porch. “Don’t look,” the boys told me, and I shielded my eyes as I walked past. We searched online for information (I was looking for the sites that say, “Leave it alone, don’t touch it;” I didn’t want to get involved) and Caleb volunteered to put it back in the nest, since it was still alive. He did, but it was not long until Levi had to boost in another one clinging by its beak. Then they left.

I looked out after a few minutes, and saw a baby bird lying on the porch. I didn’t want to touch it. When I did, it stretched and tried to squirm away from me. It was tiny, not as big as a mouse, with wings that were thin and weak, and I had to talk myself into being brave enough to scoop it onto the glove I held, brushing off some down in the process. It clung to the glove, and I could see that its eyes were closed. As soon as I got it near the nest, a baby inside started squawking, and I withdrew in fear. I didn’t want to put it back and see it thrown out again. So I found a basket, lined it with a paper towel, and hung it up on a nail near the nest. As I was hanging it up, another baby started screaming. I looked over and it was barely hanging on to the outside—I tried to give it a boost, and it tried to hold on to me—and I dropped it. Soon I was kneeling on the porch over a second baby phoebe, wanting to help and feeling like crying and not knowing what to do, praying it would live, talking to it, "Oh, little birdie...". Both of them ended up in the basket, but the mother never came to take care of them. By now they are both dead.

I read an article on the internet later in the afternoon about girls caught in child trafficking. I looked at the pictures a friend posted of her younger brother, who died recently. Three people were killed and many lost their homes in tornadoes the day before. And I sat and cried for two baby birds.

It seemed rather selfish, and melodramatic, like I was caught up in my own feelings, trying to prove my sensitivity. But crying for the phoebes was, in a way, crying for everything that is wrong with the world.

As I knelt over one of the babies, I was reminded of the verse that says, “Not even a sparrow can fall to the ground without your Heavenly Father knowing,” and I was comforted. God knew. He cared.

My dad and I mowed the church cemetery later. I like to make up stories about the people whose names I read on the tombstones. Some of the stories, though, are tragic: one family has 3 little headstones for Adolph, Anna, and Henry, infants, and a larger one for Emma, age 5, who all died within two years of each other. Another headstone I don’t have to make up a story for: it bears the name of my brother, Aaron Michael ----, March 8, 1982—June 16, 1988.

I don’t pretend to understand the problem of evil. But I do know that I can’t be angry with God when I see it; He hates it even more than I do. He cares, and will help me with the pain if I let Him. When I cried over the nestling, God was there, suffering with me. No; I was suffering with Him.

I rode the lawn mower under a mesquite tree, and the thorns grazed my forehead.

Yes. God knows what it’s like to suffer.