A Child's Lament

This afternoon my instinct was to veer east into Eagles Field, as we now call it.

The men have seen the eagles circling the silage pit and the corn field. I have seen one parent, last Friday, near our neighbour Randy's yard. I have gone to the grove of trees holding the nest regularly, and there was never anyone there except for last Monday: Little Bird was sitting there, motionless, in the heat of the afternoon, her back to the nest that cradled her not that long ago.

Today as I pulled the truck close to the fence that divided Eagles Field from the one I can drive a truck in, I saw an almost unrecognisable lump high up in the tree adjacent to the nest. It seemed to be roiling in pain. 

After long minutes it straightened itself out: Little Bird, feathers looking ruffled and bedraggled.

Little Bird, clearly in distress, crying.

This was the first time I have heard a sound out of either of the children.

Two shadows crossed the truck. The parents, never too far away, winged their way to the grove. The father circled over the scene, and the mother swooped in. She landed next to her child for a moment; and then she perched on the edge of the nest, where she could watch and encourage her. 

Sound on!

Little Bird could not be comforted. But somehow, even as she cried, she must have heard the familiar tones of her mother gently chirruping at her. Finally she took to the air; her mother joined her. 

All too soon, however, the young one was back, on the same branch, still in distress. She was trying to fly, but couldn't seem to summon the courage.

Back came the mother, circling the trees and flying in to land, this time on the branch right next to her child.

Startled, Little Bird took flight. 

This time she didn't return.  

Now it was the mother's turn to fret on the branch. Just as Little Bird had, Mama Bird became agitated, peering down at the ground. 

Finally she, too, calmed down and left.

I was curious as to what might have upset them so much so I picked up the side-by-side and drove right to the area, now devoid of birds.

Nothing.

I looked up from this unfamiliar position underneath the nest and the trees and breathed deeply, thinking about these two birds I have come to care about so fiercely.

 

And then it came to me.

Today is 17 years since my Mum left this earth for heaven.

Sometimes a girl just needs her mum, even though she's been gone for 17 years. There may not be a reason. She just wants to know her mum is nearby.

And I thought of what my Dad's friend Tony Hanson told him: "She is with God and God is with us. So she's not very far away."

Even when Little Bird will have to part from her mother, in the regular course of things, I want to think they will still be connected in some way. She will have learnt what it is to be a good eagle because of how her mother has always been there for her. 

Including when she cries.

Leaving the Nest

Vision Credit Union Calendar Contest - Eagle link

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Leave the field that the eagles call home and turn left onto the 855. Go up to the tower and turn left. Drive 20 kms on dusty gravel and turn left onto the 36. Head north for a few kms, past the burnout; and on your right you will see, about a quarter mile off the highway, a little white house with a red roof.

Only about 12 miles from the Good Rancher's place, as the eagle flies.

As you turn off the 36 onto the gravel something wonderful happens. A rainbow appears. Wait, a DOUBLE RAINBOW, arching gracefully over the house.

This house, this nest, that launched eight fledglings in their time:

Gordon

Mary

Allan

Clark

Margaret

Bruce

Mabel

Marilyn

This particular evening, the symbol of promise hovers over this place as my sister brings her son to see it, to see the nest that nurtured his family four generations ago.

The place where Ruth and Tiff brought their premature, sickly baby son after he was released from the Hanna hospital. Where Ruth prayed, "God, if you save my baby, I will give him back to you to serve you."

The place where she wept, 26 years later, after she had waved goodbye to him from the steps of their home and watched the car all the way up the dusty quarter mile until it vanished from her sight. Not once did she ask him not to go.

Her son Allan served God in India for over 40 years. Each time he returned to Canada for a brief period of home assignment, the first place he would go would be home.

He returned one time unexpectedly, shortly before she died. He came to tell her he loved her, to tell her thank you, Mom.

He had made his life on the other side of the world.

But he never forgot his nest.

First Flight

 

The day had to come, of course. Big Bird had been stretching, perching on the graceful twigs artfully extending out past the nest, flexing his back and feet and neck, fluttering and then flapping his wings. He had caught the air under his wings and then done an exhilarating lift-off straight up above the nest, where he beat his wings and remained triumphantly airborne for several fraught seconds.

This afternoon didn't seem any different from the other sleepy afternoons at the nest. I did my regular long-distance check to make sure there were two eaglets and one parent at the nest. Then I steered the side-by-side across the bumpy terrain until I came within 100 yards of the nest.

However, when I stopped, there was only Little Bird in the nest. Their parent and Big Bird had vanished.

Suddenly I heard the sound of two pairs of wings cleaving the air overhead. The parent eagles sailed silently above the copse of trees and disappeared on the other side.

I looked up into the trees and saw a quivering little mass clinging to a branch high above the nest, or so it seemed to me.

All his feathers trembling, he started to crawl up the branch.

And there he clung for long minutes, paralyzed with fear.

Until.

Until this:

They stayed thus for 38 minutes. The whole time she was almost whispering to him. She never raised her voice, not even once. He fixed his eyes on her and visibly gained strength and confidence. I felt like this was holy ground.

Then, as suddenly as she had arrived, she vanished. He was bereft.

But she let him know she wasn't far away!

Armed with this security and with the instructions she had relayed to him as they perched there together, he finally felt emboldened to make his move:

Please excuse the disjointed aspects of this first flight video. I was holding the camera and my breath and stanching tears at the same time! This nanosecond clip just serves to show the heights to which our brave Big Bird soared ...

I was wondering where he would land, whether he would crash into the branches, what he would do next. I happened to point up toward the nest, curious to see how Little Bird was faring. I should have known that the person Big Bird would want to tell his adventure to was his nest mate!

Don't you wonder what Mama Bird said in those quiet moments to her fledgling? Whatever it was, the words must have been filled with wisdom, practical instruction and encouragement. She knew she couldn't fly for him, but she let it be known that she wasn't very far away. Such love!

It took me back to 1988. I was going through a very rough time, about to launch myself out of the nest I had been hiding in. One of the hardest parts was telling my parents. 

My Dad silently gazed at me for long moments and then he came to me and wrapped his arms around me and enveloped me in a hug I can feel to this day.

He whispered one sentence: " 'Underneath are the everlasting arms.' "

And he was right.

What about you? Think back: did someone precious to you say words that would launch you into the next step of your life? How grateful we can be for those who love us enough to speak truth into our lives, exactly when we need it!

And oh, Big Bird, we are so proud of you! 

Writing in the Dark of the Year - The Final Session

This, the last week in the course, the prompt was: "Every angel is terrible ..." (Rainer Maria Rilke).

This is what came into my head:

------------------------------------

O Lucifer, star of the morning,
Have we all been tarred with
your gorgeous, careless brush?

You, the one who enjoyed fellowship
with the Almighty!
You let it go to your head, did you -
as a result you hurtled,

the most magnificent peacock,
sapphire and emerald
and onyx and gold feathers
Tumbling 

from the heavens
Cascading 

through the firmament
To land in the mysterious murkiness called
"In the beginning."

Your metamorphosis into 
the loveliest of serpents
in the garden 

made us who watched
from above
regard you with fear and awe.
Michael, Gabriel trying to fill your sandals
shuddered as you were banished
and slithered
away.

Where did you go?

Would human kind now believe
that every angel is terrible?

And so we rallied ourselves.
We organized:
Battalions
Regiments
Brigades
Divisions -
A heavenly host.
Seraphim to guard the holy of holies
Cherubim to protect humankind from themselves
The great princes: Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel
And one throne now vacant, O Lucifer,
Star of the morning.

Guardian angels
Earth angels
Hark, the herald angels sing.

An army of goodness.  

Thousands upon thousands of us,
working tirelessly to protect and defend.

And yet, still they're drawn
to you, O Lucifer

Prince of darkness
Roaring lion
Tempter of God Himself -
Terrible, beautiful
Star of the morning

The Fallen Angel

by

Alexandre Cabanel

https://www.culturefrontier.com/the-fallen-angel-lucifer-painting/

Writing In The Dark of the Year: All About Snakes

Week 2 of Writing in the Dark of the Year. For the first exercise we read Sylvia Plath's Rhyme and then we were asked to think of a story and give it a twist.

When we were in Coonoor, India, and going for walks with Mum on the Lamb's Rock road we would have "Snake Drills." Mum would call out, "Snake!" and we would have to freeze in whatever position we were in at that moment.

I saw my first snake at the ranch in the garden in 2023, a beautiful garter snake. I didn't know whether to freeze so I took a picture and shot it to Ivy and the Good Rancher. They both assured me that this snake wouldn't hurt me!

All this to say that the writing course I'm taking took a decidedly reptilian turn.

This is what I wrote:

Once upon a time in a land far away there was a garden, a garden full of the scent of eucalyptus, the sparkle of cinnamon, the punch of Tellicherry pepper.

Through the garden ran a river where fish would sparkle silvery in the cool, clear water. 

And the birds would flit and preen and coo. 

It was very good.

But there was a serpent in that garden, of course there was, hiding in the eucalyptus leaves, lying in wait for the innocent maiden who he knew would pass by him in the heat of the day. Surely she would notice him today. He would wait for her.

The maiden did come to the eucalyptus grove. She gathered her basket of leaves, piling them high as she breathed in their heady aroma. She paused for a word with her companion; and as she did, the serpent slithered surreptitiously into the basket of leaves, slid to the bottom with the faintest rustle, so soft the maiden never heard him.

She lifted the basket onto her head. It seemed heavier than usual, somehow. Maybe she was just tired, she thought to herself, as she trudged down the path to the factory.

She took her place in line, setting her basket down with a sigh.

From the depths of the basket appeared a sleek head with two obsidian eyes and a forked ruby tongue.

The maiden, lost in her thoughts, did not notice.

"Look at me now," the serpent hissed as his tongue flicked against her left heel and he made a loop around her ankle.

Almost faster than thought he wrapped himself around her, his head curling around about her neck, squeezing her in his vicious embrace.

The courtyard froze in horrified, helpless silence.

The girl, choking, petrified, fainted and fell to the ground as one dead. The snake exhaled, a victory hiss. She had noticed him. They all had noticed him. He had triumphed!

Slowly, slowly he unfurled himself from the maiden's supine body. He began to crawl away on his belly, back to the camouflage of the eucalyptus trees, back to wait for his next victim.

BOOM! The foreman's gun blew his head to smithereens.

---------------------------

For the second exercise we look at a picture the facilitator has selected for that night's work. This is what she had selected for week 2:

(Untitled by Katerina Plotnikova)

She showed it to us after I had read my piece ... Because of this weird coincidence, I thought I would include the second piece I read to the group that evening. After looking at the picture and gazing at the fresh face of the young woman with the world-weary eyes, my mind was transported to that first garden in the Book of Genesis.

The first part of the next piece is clearly not my writing, as you can see. My comments start immediately following the old, familiar story:

Genesis 3:1-7 (The Message)

"The serpent was clever, more clever than any wild animal God had made. He spoke to the woman: 'Do I understand that God told you not to eat from any tree in the garden?'

"The woman said to the serpent, 'Not at all. We can eat from the trees in the garden. It's only about the tree in the middle of the garden that God said, 'Don't eat from it; don't even touch it or you'll die.'

"The serpent told the woman, 'You won't die. God knows that the moment you eat from that tree, you'll see what's really going on. You'll be just like God, knowing everything, ranging all the way from good to evil.'

"When the woman saw that the tree looked like good eating and realized what she would get out of it - she'd know everything! - she took and ate the fruit and then gave some to her husband, and he ate.

"Then they understood what they had done. And they realized that they were not wearing any clothes. So they took some leaves from fig trees and sewed them together to cover their nakedness."

The man went to work, tilling the soil, setting up empires, toiling until he dropped with exhaustion.

But the woman, with the weight of the serpent's words wrapped around her head, looked down through the generations with knowing, tired eyes.

And the guns roared and the bombs hissed and the buildings dropped and the mothers wailed, Rachel weeping for her children, unable to be comforted.

And so it continued for 100 days and counting.

And the fig trees - unwitting props in the drama between good and evil that began to rage that day in the garden - bowed their heads and withered in Gaza.

Mothers' Day 2018

Mums, regardless of species, have one thing in common: they love their babies.

And the babies look to their mummies, knowing that this is the person who will care for them like no one else.

It's a heart bond ...

Cornucopia

On a dusty cloudless day at the end of May, Hank showed up with his corn planter to sow what we hoped would be a good portion of the winter feed for the herd.

Gulls circled greedily, swooping for the hard kernels, screeching invitations to the party at each other.

We thanked Hank for his efficient, cheerful service; we thanked God for Hank's fitting us in at the last minute; we prayed for rain to nourish our field, and to grow grass throughout the neighbourhood; and we sat back to watch what would happen.






On June 11, the Good Rancher texted me that he had something to show me. I met him at the gate and was greeted by this promising sight:

Our fledgling crop had started to push its way up through the dry, hard soil, defying the odds - we had received no rain as of yet.

The days turned into anxious weeks and then months. We sustained the swather-ignited fire. The whole area reported fire after fire; the clouds loomed and swirled menacingly; the rain did not fall.

The weather was a barometer of the whole summer at the Ranch, it seemed:  funnel clouds of irritation and anger arising from nowhere around our heads; dust puddles of doubt swirling at our feet. The house was shrouded in darkness, blinds perpetually pulled down against the sun's insistent attempts at entry through the windows.

And the temperatures continued to rise.

Water was pumped twice a day for the livestock. We moved cattle to fields where there were a few remaining green shoots pushing bravely up through the cracking soil.

Finally, we were forced to start feeding.

Every day, morning and night, I heard the Good Rancher implore God to let it rain. He was, of course, not alone: the cry was heard all around us, neighbours being pushed closer to despair, payments on equipment looming large in the imminent future, insects threatening to finish off what the sun could not fully decapitate.

People left who said they were in for the long term. People came back who said they were gone for good. Everything was at sixes and sevens.

Every day he checked his corn crop, watching it start to shrivel on the dwarfed stalks. Finally, one day he came back to the house, shoulders bent with weariness and care. "God can cause things to grow without rain," he said, almost to himself. "He can grow the corn. Or not. I have to leave it with Him."

A couple of weeks later, a truck stopped by. A crew was in the neighbourhood and they had half a morning free at the end of the week: did we want them to take the corn crop off?

What was there to lose? The Good Rancher assented rather grimly.

And two days before the crew were due to arrive, the heavens opened a crack and released enough rain to turn the direction of the corn.

It wasn't much, by any means - the clouds roared louder than the rain's patter. But it was enough for the job at hand.

The next Saturday morning the crew from 3G Custom Silaging Ltd. showed up as early as they had promised, and set to work right away.

The Good Rancher texted me to come over and see the sight. The corn seemed to have grown in the last 48 hours - enough for a significant portion of our feed needs to be met!

After they managed to leave one enormous stalk standing, I went over and tried to measure it:

Then I zipped back to the silage pit to watch the trucks unloading and the G.R. tractoring around in all that unexpected green ...

My three closest companions and I quietly went back to the field that now contained not much more than stones, husks and a few little cobs that had escaped the ravenous machine; the field that also contained our hopes for locally sourced feed and healthy cattle.

I started to gather some of the pretty rocks exposed by the machinery, and piled them up in order to collect them all at the end, as is my wont. 

But this pile started to take on a shape and a purpose of its own. I thought of the priest Samuel in the early pages of the Bible who placed a large rock on a significant spot of land and named the land Ebenezer, which translates to "Hitherto has the Lord helped us."

I added a couple of ears of corn and two horns I found in the dust and made this little place my prayer of thanksgiving. Even if the temperatures are unseasonably high; even if there is no rain; even if people come and go; God is still with us and helping us. Proof in the past and a promise for the future.

And that itself is cause for thanksgiving!

That itself is enough.

Happy Thanksgiving

Endings

I slowed down as I saw the familiar tree cluster up ahead, the cluster housing the Hawk's Nest. 

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.

 The infant started to check out its surroundings, gathering its courage little by little.

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.

Lurching unsteadily, it finally fluttered from the safety of its perch to the soft grass below. From there it managed to "fly" to a branch a couple of feet higher and east of its previous log on the ground.

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.