Sunny Side Up with Kathleen Gibson Hopeless? Look for a higher hand I recall that the sunset glowed startling pink that evening, inviting a walk down alleys a-rustle with drifting leaves. And that on that walk I found the broken left-winged Bohemian waxwing. Grounded wings must be the most bitter sorrow. The tiny bird dashed frantically beside the pebbled lane, repeatedly diving for cover into small collections of leaves. Scooping it up, I nestled that thing with feathers in the sleeve of my jacket and brought it home to die. It took six months to do so. I named the bird Skysweeper; learned to know and love him. He sang tunes without words and his presence sweetened our home. Active in spite of his irreparably broken wing, Skysweeper weakened only toward the end of his life. Instead of an entire half-apple a day, he ate but a quarter. Nor did he hop on his perch for sheer gladness, or converse with the bird in the mirror. When he died, my sorrow was as large as he was small. One evening at supper the Preacher and I noticed he�d eaten nothing at all that day. His apple, hanging in the corner, was untouched. He had no strength to hop onto his perch. He tried, though, repeatedly. Finally, depleted, he laid down on the cage bottom, his tawny chest heaving. �This may be the end,� the Preacher said. I got up, went to the cage, and as I had so often in the last months, stood over him, talking, singing, chirping, praying. Lovely bird. Brave bird. God�s bird. His eyes, clear and trusting, locked on mine. As my words eased into air tense with desperation, something changed. Once again he began struggling. Every cheer and chirp seemed to lift him higher, until finally the bird wrestled his way into a standing position. But his perch seemed still a reach too far. Not until then did I notice something. One of his long crest feathers had entangled itself around his beak. His weakness came because he couldn�t eat or drink. I felt horrible not to have noticed his extra disability sooner. Opening the cage, I removed his weightless body. He didn�t stir, just kept looking at my eyes. As I cradled him in both hands and stroked his chest with one finger, the Preacher freed his beak. The change was immediate, almost humourous. Skysweeper immediately let me settle him back on his perch. But now he stayed upright, attacking his apple with a vengeance and taking repeated sips of water. Over the six months we were graced with Skysweeper�s presence in our home, God used that little feathered champion to teach me many things. That evening, with graphic poignancy, he reminded me that when life seems entirely without hope, a higher hand waits to set us free�and that often God�s hand looks very much like a friend�s. Never underestimate the impact of a few encouraging words and a single caring gesture. Through you, God may bring hope, and rescue a life on the brink. August 20, 2008 �2008, Kathleen Gibson Respond Home |
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