I had come from attending a funeral, a time to say goodbye to a valued member of the community. I had found myself sitting immediately behind the family. The front row was, of course, occupied by the senior members of the deceased's family.
As I stood with the congregation for the first song - the family remained seated - I felt something I had never experienced before: pain so acute emanating from between the shoulder blades of one of the mourners on the first pew that it manifest itself in wave after wave of heat, which I could feel physically and literally as I stood directly behind and a couple of rows back.
I can't remember the songs we sang. At the end, I sat shakily down.
The eulogy was intoned. More searing pain.
Another song: "It is well with my soul." I mouthed the words - they seemed hollow to me for a reason I could not explain to myself.
The minister spoke, words of comfort, of hope for those who have placed their trust in the Lord Jesus Christ.
But what thrummed in my head, more and more insistently each time it repeated itself, was this lament from the prophet Isaiah:
He was despised and rejected of men;
A man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.
I did not know any but two of the family, and I had no idea what was causing such fierce pain in a person I had never met; but I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this particular mourner understood those words. This particular mourner, I was confident, had lived them.
And then the minister asked the congregation to rise for the final song: "It is well with my soul."
I wondered if the minister could sense what I felt, the desolation like walking on a parched field where it is so dry the ground crackles underfoot. I wondered if it had disoriented him like it had me.
An uneasy awkwardness as we began to sing. He realised what had happened after the first verse. We cut the song short, skipping a couple of verses.
One verse, however, stood out to me in sharp relief from the rest of the song:
Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate
And has shed His own blood for my soul.
Those words from Isaiah's pen had been written about Christ Himself.
And so, as the benediction was pronounced, I committed the mourner, and the whole family, to the only One who could fully understand the degree of despite, of rejection, of sorrow, of grief that rolled off that perfectly tailored back like sea billows.
I left shortly after the luncheon, and my vehicle seemed to point itself toward the Nest.
As I approached the tree the rain started to fall, great fat teardrops rolling down my windshield.
I peered out of the window and then checked the tree.
The nest was gone.
I turned the car around and pulled up on the sagging shoulder of the road. Climbing out, I hurried down the slope and searched for any signs of the place that had been home to two and perhaps three little siblings only a day earlier.
There was not a remnant, either in the branches or on the surrounding ground.
As I turned to leave, however, a familiar nagging sound hit my ears:
There had to be a reason for that crazy bird to be hanging out there still ... I cast about for anything that would provide an explanation.
And the tiniest movement caught my eye.
I shielded my camera from the steady rain, all the while wanting to scoop the little baby up and move it to somewhere warmer, somewhere with a modicum of security and shelter.
But I could merely stand by helpless, much like I did earlier that afternoon at the funeral.
The call of the black bird with the red heart was apparently effective, however: back came a welcome figure, cajoling, squawking, circling just out of reach.
The bedraggled little one was by no means forgotten; even though it appeared to be alone, its parent was still near, still very much involved.
An hour or more passed before finally it started to crouch slightly and to flutter its wings - just the slightest movement, but definite progress!
And then suddenly, with a little hop it turned around on its branch, raising its wings.
And all the time, out of sight and earshot of the baby, its guardian silently circled the trees.
Twilight beckoned and it was getting harder to see the little bird soldiering determinedly on. I reluctantly decided that I had to bid my hawks goodbye with gratitude for the joy they had provided me over the past days.
I slowly made my way up the slope to the vehicle and turned around for one last look.
Suddenly there was a screech and the rustle of feathers, and the baby's guardian swooped in front of the trees where its family had been born and now, in the fullness of time, where the most vulnerable of its members was about to take its place in the world.
Once more my mind cast back again to the funeral, to the discomfort and pain of an ending that left threads untied and hearts raw.
And words from the prophet Isaiah came to my mind again - only this time they were words of hope:
For I am about to do something new. See, I have already begun!
Do you not see it? I will make a pathway through the wilderness.
I will create rivers in the dry wasteland.
I turned the key in the ignition and said a little prayer that the fledgling would be kept safe, and that the mourner would be comforted.
I was comforted too. The two harsh endings I had witnessed that day were, in fact, the opportunity for new beginnings. The chance for the slate to be wiped clean, for a fresh start.
And it was well with my soul.
(Nothing dramatic happens in this 3 1/2 minute video, but you will see our little bird getting stronger and more confident ... the last segment had to be shot from my phone, so it is difficult to see the little guy staggering around on the branch. Look up from the fence post in the centre, and then a little to the left, and you might spot him desperately trying to keep his balance!)
Here is one rendition of "It is Well With My Soul" - tells the inspiration for the song.
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