Bird In Hand

The sound was unmistakable, a “plunk” against the glass as the bird flew headlong into the kitchen window. Rushing out the door, I hurriedly grabbed a hand towel and slipped my feet into the muck boots by the door.[image error]

A nuthatch laid stunned on the ground, its tiny wings splayed out in the grass. Its beak open, gasping for breath.

Carefully, I gathered it in the towel and held it close. Casting aside every superstition about having a bird in the house (we southerners believe it is a sign of death), I brought the injured little one inside and sat on the sofa, while speaking to it like a newborn infant.

A bird is a delicate thing. With tiny feet, light-as-air-feathers, and thin beaks, looking as this winged-creature filled me with amazement. I told the little love “God knows you have fallen. Let’s just rest here for a minute and let Him take care of you.”

The nuthatch closed its tiny eyes and panted harder.

“God sees you my little bird. If his eye is on the sparrow, it is also on the nuthatch.”

Suddenly it occurred to me that I have been living my life much like this little bird. I’m flying (hard as I can), as fast as I can, every day that I can. I have a full-time job, an aging dad, a marriage, two goats, a novel coming out in 15 months, another novel in progress, and in the middle of that, I garden like there’s no tomorrow.  (I see you shaking your head. You’re with me too, I can tell). There is so much I want to do, so much I want to learn, so much I want to tell y’all and suddenly, “plunk.” I hit a glass wall.

That’s the thing about glass walls, they’re invisible and oh-so-deadly.

Lately, I’ve been having my share of pain. Neck pain the result of an accident in Atlanta after someone passed a city bus and sideswiped me. Stress triggers this pain, but if one were to ask, “Are you stressed?” I would be hard pressed to list a single thing keeping me up at night. And so I continue to fly headlong all day, every day.

But God knows I have fallen. He knows all of us have fallen. And as I sat holding the tiny black and white nuthatch, I saw – clearly – the parallel. God is also holding me. He’s holding me as I hold the bird He created. He knows the number of hairs on my head and the number of feathers of every tiny bird. God himself is saying, “Rena, let’s just rest here for a minute. Let me take care of you. Rest. Breathe.”

Ten minutes passed then suddenly the bird bristled awake and chirped. Before I could take it outside it flew to the ceiling. Nuthatches aren’t perching birds. I think of them as “hanging” birds, because they have a big toe (called a hallux toe) that allows them to hang beneath limbs, and walk down trees head first using this hallux toe to hold it in place. This “walking” gives them an advantage as they pluck insects from tree bark.

Glancing toward the ceiling, I looked at the bird’s tiny feet. Clearly, one foot was injured and curled-closed. It literally held on with a single toe reminding me yet again that even when we are hanging on by a thin thread, God has us.

Renea Winchester is the author of In the Garden with Billy, , and A Hardscrabble Christmas.

Photo Credit: Wikipedia