Friday, June 20, 2014


I went down on my hands and knees to catch the little bird that was hopping along but was not flying. Surely it was injured. My intention was to pick it up and give it to B. to maybe nurture and keep out of harm's way; this would at least be something.

The difficult part wasn't catching up to the bird, but cupping the hand just right around it. You feel how delicate the body is and you immediately hesitate to grip because you think you are going crush the bird; in which case the bird gets away because you don't have him tight enough.

Then there was a moment when the bird let me pick him up; from there he walked along my hand, arm, shoulder. I cupped him again in my hand.

Later, I thought: if even the momentary docility of a little bird gives to a mere man such delight, then what must be the delight of God when we let Him snatch us up and do with as He wills?

B. said to me it was a baby nuthatch and she's been watching them being fed by their mother at the bird feeder; at which point the bird suddenly flew, away and up to the feeder. Though not before leaving a little white parting gift.

The delight of seeing the bird's flight - tenuous but sure, the flight of a baby: my only thought was thanks that the bird could fly and that it was not injured after all.

And later: if the flight of a little bird from the hand of a mere man gives to him such delight, then what must be the delight...

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