Behold the Birds

(They swooped into my life at the most amazing moments)

Author: Mary Ann O’Roark

Executive Editor - Guideposts

 

Gliding overhead they seemed almost magical to me—the birds of the air, as the Bible calls them. And often, at certain times in my life, they flew in to delight and comfort me when I needed them most. A little girl in West Virginia , I watched as the twittering wrens fluttered in their dust baths next to my grandmother’s porch, and when the first robins arrived in the spring, I crumbled toast for them in the yard. Sprawled under our huge oak tree, I’d gaze upward hoping to glimpse a flash of scarlet—a cardinal—among the leaves. During our summer family gatherings Aunt Marcella and I flipped through her bird books, and one day we both let out a whoop when a rose-breasted grosbeak landed on the porch.

 

You’d think that when I moved to New York City I would have given up having birds in my life. Yet the terrace of my seventeenth-floor apartment was visited by warbling purple finches, cooing mourning doves and an occasional raucous blue jay. Crows squawked on chimneys below, and seagulls sailed by from the Hudson River . City birds, you might say.

 

In 1988 friends and I bought a weekend house in the country. An amazing array of birds congregated at our feeders in the backyard. One incredible spring we looked out to see a gathering of goldfinches and indigo buntings, their colors bright as jewels.

 

It was the black-capped chickadees, though, that touched my heart the most, with their shining eyes, heads of soft black velvet and sweet natures. I’d go out to fill the bird feeder, and the chickadees would flutter down toward me calling “dee dee dee.” I sometimes stayed there for a while, even in the freezing cold, as they came closer and closer, perching on branches barely inches from my head.

 

At Guideposts, I’d often read stories from readers telling how God had sent birds to bring affirmation or peace or comfort just when they needed it. I’d hear from friends, who weren’t particularly sentimental, about how birds had appeared at times of high emotion, cruising by to bless a wedding or christening, or tapping at the window of a grieving mother. Every so often it crossed my mind-as much as I loved birds, why hadn’t I had such experiences?

 

When my friends and I decided to sell our country house in 1999, I knew I’d miss what I’d come to think of as my “country birds.” One of our last evenings there, I went walking at twilight down a path through a cornfield close to the Delaware River . I paused at the top of an incline as the sea of leaves below me began to rustle, then churn. With a mighty beating of wings, perhaps a hundred swallows rose from the field and swept in unison into the sky.

 

A swirling, graceful ballet began that lasted for more than 15 minutes. The swallows surged back and forth across the field, rising up, then skimming down, in elegant, pulsating waves. In the slanting golden light, the air seemed to vibrate along with my soul. Were these birds a congregation here for vespers? Finally, dusk settled, and so did the birds. The flock gave a final low turn, flew off across the river and was lost from sight. I took it as a beautiful benediction to my time spent in this country setting. Rather than regret at having to say good-bye to our house, I was filled with gratitude.

 

I’d read that 280 species of birds had been sighted over the years by devoted watchers peering through binoculars in Manhattan ’s Central Park . Back in the city, I kept hoping I’d see just one of my beloved country birds, but I never did.

 

And then came September 11. I stood numbly on my terrace that day. Above the drifting gulls I saw man-made birds on a darker mission-jet fighters patrolling the city sky.

 

In the weeks that followed, I felt a pervasive unease. I’d been thankful for my life of comfort-water pouring at the turn of a tap, fresh produce heaped in grocery stores, safe surroundings in which to work, opportunities to travel freely. Now my sense of security had been shaken. A dread undermined my joy in the city and the life I loved. I felt ashamed to ask God to help calm my anxiety—when so many others had lost loved ones, who was I to request any special comfort?

 

A month passed. Anthrax was found in Manhattan mailrooms, rumors of more danger circulated. As the weekend of October 13 approached, government officials announced the city was once again on “high alert” for possible terrorist attacks. Saturday morning dawned golden and mild enough for me to open one of my terrace doors. Still I felt almost physically sick with anxiety. I considered breaking a lunch date I had in the neighborhood with a business acquaintance. I could barely muster the energy to go out the door at all, much less carry on a conversation. I just wanted to huddle inside with my cats, Clarence and Sheila. What should I do?

 

Into my mind came a prayer I had taped close to my desk: “Open my heart to the gifts of this day.” Inexplicably, I opened wide my arms and spoke out loud. “Holy Spirit, I need your help. Put me in touch with the strength and joy that remain at the center of each day, no matter how disturbingly the world has been shaken and changed.”

 

There was a rush of air and a whoosh. Through my terrace door swooped a swallow, just like the ones I had seen in the cornfield that glorious twilight evening. The swallow shot across my living room, caromed off my ficus tree and dropped onto the rug. Clarence leaped from a chair, grabbed the swallow in his mouth and raced for the dining room, Sheila in hot pursuit.

 

“Clarence!” I shouted, fumbling to open some windows. In the next instant, just as astonishingly, Clarence opened his mouth and released the bird. For a moment all of us were still. Then the swallow spread its wings, rose from the floor in a graceful arc and swept out the narrow opening of the only window I’d managed to open. I watched as it sailed over the rooftops unhurt.

 

Within a half hour, I ventured out myself. I met my lunch date, blurted out what had happened, and we immediately started pouring out our hearts like old friends, sharing our fears about the future but laughing with the joyful surprises of life as well. When we parted, I impulsively turned down Amsterdam Avenue , a route I never take. Mid-block I paused at a florist shop and nursery. The sidewalk in front was filled with trees and hanging plants, a forest glade amid concrete and traffic.

 

I can’t believe this is here, I thought. Then I heard a delightful “dee dee dee.” It couldn’t be. I gasped as a small bright-eyed bird with a dark velvet head fluttered down on one of the hanging baskets and hopped its way toward me. “A black-capped chickadee!” I cried.

 

“It’s a sign, isn’t it?” a lilting voice said. I turned. The woman beside me came up to my shoulder, had a gentle wrinkly face and curly white hair. Although she wore not a trace of other makeup, under each of her twinkling eyes was painted a line of lovely bluebird blue.

 

“You never see chickadees on the streets of New York City ,” I said.

 

“I know,” she said. “It’s a sign for you, from God.” The chickadee gave a hop and flew up over a lamppost, toward Riverside Park . “Peace and blessings,” the woman said. She walked around the corner and was gone.

 

“Do not be anxious about your life,” Jesus said. “Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap . . . yet your Heavenly Father cares for them.” And in a transcendent flutter of wings, in spite of the world’s uncertainties, I knew that the timeless promise was true.

 

 

“Consider the ravens: for they neither sow nor reap; which neither have storehouse nor barn; and God feedeth them: how much more are ye better than the fowls?” - Luke 12:24