One Small Bird
Please — let me know, somehow, that you’re OK up there?” I ask my mother earnestly on what seems her death bed. Holding her arthritic, frail hand, I continue. “You know, come visit me sometime as a little bird or something. I just need to know you’re OK up there.” She slowly nods, staring straight ahead while I glance out the adjacent window in time to see two large buzzards roost on a light pole in the hospital parking lot. Mom and I chuckle at the irony, fitting for our less-than-delicate family of humor-seekers.
Mom was discharged home on hospice care, passing quietly some months later in midsummer. Dad, safe behind his newspaper, was snapped to attention when the hospice nurse drew a sharp breath, quietly declaring, “She’s gone,” at the conclusion of a gentle, soothing rub on Mom’s bedridden back. The family matriarch’s soul had ascended without fanfare into what we anticipated as heaven.
***
Five months later, Thanksgiving Day dawned bright, hopeful, and not to mention, frigid. The whole family was arriving for the holiday meal in honor of Mom and her undying predilection to herd us toward unity — even if just for supper. Our home had just recovered from a major plumbing debacle that threatened to nix the gathering. But good luck prevailed, and all piping and toilets were a go (no pun intended).
The meal was cooking, the table set, and family en route. As Chief Ambiance Officer, I lit the gas fireplace in the dining room, only to immediately inhale a cloud of natural gas. In my haste I had failed to open the flue and in rapid response, closed the valve and flung open the front door and a few windows to help the noxious fumes dissipate. With order restored and logs cooled, the flue was opened, windows and door resealed, and fire restarted. A quick scan of the surroundings assured no errant critter had entered our abode. Unauthorized critter entry is a risk of rural life, but even Currier and Ives would have been proud of the cozy holiday scene before me.
Family arrived, hugs shared, and cocktails flowed as memories of Mom were shared in laughter and tears. She was a good old girl, and we toasted her spirit with aplomb. Amid the convivial mayhem of conversations and dishes crisscrossing the familial table , I took in the love and connection, grateful for this rare opportunity for all of us to be in one place at the same time. Toward the end of the meal I settled back in my chair, deeply relaxed, my gaze wandering beyond the table, and that’s when I gasped, acknowledging another (stealthy and petite) recipient of our bounty.
A very small bird of unknown species was sitting quietly on the floor alongside the sofa that had been part of my parents’ first set of furniture. My mother had so adored this furniture that the living room ensemble made its rounds among we siblings and had come to roost in my home. It was a room of reverence, my “lady’s lair,” that greeted me each day. The lilliputian feathered friend, unafraid of the excess of humans in its proximity, had undoubtedly come in when the door was opened from the fireplace boondoggle. But the fact that it happened hours before, and the little avian had been content and quiet for that length of time, made me pause and reflect on that prior conversation with my mother. Could it be? My gasp had the others on full alert, and when I shared my discovery, all hell broke loose.
Despite having heard my story of the bedside chat between Mom and me, chairs hurriedly scraped, and footsteps stomped toward the delicate winged creature. Shouting was accompanied by the vigorous swinging of a dip net hastily retrieved from the basement by my husband. The feathered one flew around the downstairs, taking brief refuge in a dried floral arrangement hanging above a doorway. And, in a fitting finale, once captured in the dreaded dip net, our little visitor hopped through a large open area in the net’s perimeter and took flight through the reopened front door.
We stood around, agape as to what had just transpired. Surely this was no ordinary bird. It had contentedly roosted nearby for hours, taking it all in, relaxed and willing to hang out undiscovered for the duration, with nary a twitch of wing.
The younger set was clearly unsettled, nervously asking what had just transpired; had we just encountered a Ouija board moment from the deceased? We elders simply smiled, realizing that Mom had indeed arrived –as asked– to reassure us that all was good, that there was no need to worry about her journey, and, by deftly escaping capture, to get the last laugh at her son-in-law. And why not? She always loved a party.
To this day, my family still recalls that giving of thanks, telling their young families about the uncanny visit by a small bird who chose to sit and partake in the laughter and tears of remembrance –the fodder of great chapters in a family album.
Acquaintances have often dismissed the situation as “obvious opportunity“ –the door had been opened after all. But I feel differently. Most captured creatures thrash about, their accidental capture erupting into fight-or-flight mode as they flap toward what they hope is an immediate exit to safety. This avian however, was waiting, took advantage of my mistake, and thoughtfully hopped inside. Mom was never one “to make waves” and this unusual bird behaved the same: Mom had clearly paid a visit.
I relate this story for several reasons. Its telling has become a family tradition that offers levity (on a day sometimes wrought with pressure and expectation), and a commitment to lineage. But more important, it affirms the power of heavenly connection. If we all really scrutinize our past, there have likely been messages brought forth that have no other origin but that of the divine, some so subtle as to merely blip past conscious thought in the fray of our daily comings and goings. Like many matters of the heart and soul, these blips whisper their presence. It’s up to us to stay open for such messages. Someone out there may just be attempting to let us know that they, too, are all good.
With the holiday season upon us, may our hearts be as full of joy as they possibly can. And may loving connections find their way into your fray — wherever, and in whatever form, that may be.
Happy Thanksgiving, and all my best to YOU, Dear Readers!
