A Bird in Hand

At first, I though the little brown bird had no head. 

On the rough gray cement of my front porch was a little brown bird. It’s head was gone—but, that couldn’t be right? It was sitting upright and there was no blood. No signs of a struggle.  

As I approached, I could see that it was breathing. Not dead. The house finch was in a resting position, head turned around and tucked down in the fluff of it’s back. Eyes closed.

This little wonder, usually animated with paranoid hyper-awareness, had none of the kinetic flittering that was normal. She seemed to be exhausted, fatigued all the way down to her tiny bones. Hunkered down. Visible. Vulnerable. Unconcerned.

She was done. Waiting for her end to come.

When I reached down and touch her, she made a surprised little hop, then made a sleepy assessment of the danger. This was the moment to wheel away, but clinging weariness quickly bedded down her fears. Resigned to her fate, she again turned her head around to her own back for soft, self-comfort.

I have long loved birds. We filled feeders through my childhood and one of my most beloved gifts as a kid was a Peterson’s Field Guide to the Birds. I was 10 when I received it. I had no idea there were so many birds in the world, but flipping through the jumbles of illustrations I was entranced by the wondrous variations on the basic design.

The differences were systematized and described in that book. Since then, noticing birds has been an ever-present hobby for me for 40+ years.

I still have the book, the spine split and threadbare, with checkmarks and notes made long before I’d found a handwriting style as identifiably mine as a bright bird’s plumage.

Observe long enough and you’ll discover that birds go deeply placid before they die of age. Few make it to that point, or few do that I’ve seen. There was the Great Blue Heron that stood motionless for days by my parents’ little fishpond. The martin that sat sleepily on a branch outside my apartment in Colorado during its last hours. 

And now, a tired little house finch on my front porch, head tucked away.

I scooped her up, light as a feathery cloud. She hardly protested. I placed her atop the chest on our porch to prevent ground predators from making her final experience one of terror.

I was filled with both wonder and sadness. Wonder, because her intricate beauty, though worn and haggard, was in close view. Sadness, because I knew she didn’t have long. 

I had things to do and could not linger. So I reached for my son’s baseball glove on the chair beside me and placed it like a tent over little Ms Finch. One last layer of protection. 

This episode sparked a memory. Another time in Colorado, many years before, when I had wanted to tuck my head somewhere and hide from my own fatigue. 

I had been working for a college campus ministry in Pennsylvania. When the leaders of our team left on short notice, I was asked to take over. The truth was that I didn’t know what I was doing. After that first year holding a team together, I was brought in for much-needed leaders’ training. I showed up overwhelmed. Training made it much worse.

At the training in Colorado we were taken through material on everything that we should know, consider, watch out for, plan around, build in, report on, respond to, raise funds for, cast vision toward, and be held accountable to accomplish. It was impossible.

Having made this point clearly to us, we were given the consoling reminder that we could, of course, never accomplish all these things in our own capacities. We had to give ourselves the grace to fail and, above all, ask God for the impossible. Trust God to move. Have big faith.

By the end of the training, I had grown certain of one thing— was going to remain overwhelmed. 

Just before the last session, I staggered outside during the break. I had an urge to get away but couldn’t go far. There was, however, a mature tree with low, sturdy branches in the courtyard. I climbed it. 

I was high enough that no one knew I was there. A few minutes of glorious solitude in the dappled sunlight was a balm for my heavy heart.

Of all the things that were weighing on me, the heaviest was that I was full of doubt rather than trust. “God would move if we asked with a heart full of faith”, we were reminded. Ask Him for the impossible? I wasn’t sure I could trust Him for that.

Maybe I could grow in that area? I should begin small, ask in faith and trust Him to act. I could at least do that. 

Just then, a little bird (strangely, I don’t remember what kind) landed on one of the nearby branches in the tree. At that moment, I had an impulse to ask for something small but ridiculous as a demonstration of my faith.

I extended my arm, hand up and open in front of me. Then, with all the faith I could muster, I asked God to have a bird land there. It seemed crazy, but I wanted to ask for something tangible that was a stretch for me, but not too big. So I prayed and specifically asked God to let me hold a bird in my hand. Then I waited.

I held that receiving position for a while. I gave God time. Several minutes came and went. No birds showed up. The one in my tree had left promptly after my initial prayer.

My arm became tired and I eventually let it drop. I tried to let my heart down slowly too, thinking to myself that this was a silly, selfish request. Why would He answer it? It was probably me—my lack of faith. 

My dappled reprieve ended and the meeting began. I left my perch (surprising a few people when I emerged from on high) and rejoined the group. Back in the air conditioning. Back in the darkened room. One last session.

Our meeting ended and I went back to my apartment to change. It was a Friday. I planned to drive up into the mountains with friends for the weekend but we needed a car. I was tasked with getting a rental.

That afternoon in Colorado was a scorcher. The thin air abated much less of the sun’s power than the humidity out East, though it was mercifully dry. Having no car and no ride, my only option was to take a bike across town to get the rental car. A sweaty trek.

The sun poured down from above, the blacktop casting heat up from below. As I and my bike neared my destination, I rode down one of the access roads parallel to the main avenue. It was newly paved and a dark, shimmering black in the heat. No lines were painted.

Speeding along, I gently swerved around something in the middle of the otherwise pristine road. I thought it was a rock. Twenty feet later, I realized it was a little sparrow. Curious, and eager for a closer look, I circled back.

The sparrow sat there, baking on the blacktop, his beak wide open. The little guy was overheated and lethargic. He didn’t seem to notice me pull up right next to him.

I squatted down, taking a close look. I could feel a dramatic increase in the heat as I came low to the ground. Definitely overheated, and not likely to make it much longer without shade or water.

Adjacent to the road was a line of bushes—good enough.

He didn’t resist when I picked him up and set him under the nearest bush. It was already dramatically cooler there, and with a little water from my bottle poured on him and the ground, he gained some vigor and awareness. He might make it.

Good deed done, it was back on my bike and on to the rental company. I made it about 100 yards before God whispered in my mind “I just answered your prayer.” 

This realization fell on me hard and I had to stop riding again. There was a weight to that moment. He had answered my prayer. Just as I had asked—but not like I expected.

My request in the tree was for God to act on my behalf. (Preferably right then.) I’d asked selfishly, expecting him to confirm my good qualities. He answered generously, using me to confirm His good character.

On that hot afternoon in Colorado, he demonstrated His care through me to another, and in doing so demonstrated his care for me. I frequently must be reminded of the same lesson: That faith comes after its object. I trust in God because He is good. He’s not good to me because I trust Him. He is worthy. Always.

I often get it backward and wind up overwhelming myself with the urge to be faith-filled. When I am overworked, or weary, or overheated in the hot crucible of ministry, it’s often because I’m trying to be faithful so I’ll deserve His goodness and attention.

He is good. When I find myself in trouble, His gentle, kind hands move me to a better place and remind me to rest and trust in Him. 

—

That morning on my front porch it was my hands that showed kindness to a tired little sparrow. When I checked on her forty minutes later she was gone. Stretched out and still on the chest. 

I was glad to provide for her in her last hour. I could do little more. Even in the sadness of that loss, there is the reminder in Matthew that no sparrow will fall to the ground outside our Father’s care. How much more will He care for us?

Not because we trust in Him, but because He is worthy.