Lessons From a Wren

Thanks to a branch-like wreath on our front door, we currently have a house guest, an adorable wren with five eggs of which the first hatched just yesterday. Despite my warnings to the family to be careful when opening the door, this morning the bird got caught by surprise and instead of flying to the nearest tree to wait for the door to close again, it flew inside the house.

The next 20 min were youtube-worthy. I threatened our cat with disinheriting her if she even so much as attempted to catch this mom of a newborn. I opened all the windows (causing my houseplants to go into shock since it was exactly 32 degrees outside) and tried to coax the bird back to her home outside. For some reason she seemed unable to find any of the huge openings to fly through and instead kept hitting her head at the wall and the parts of the windows that couldn’t be opened.

I tried talking to it. Seriously. St Francis did it, so I felt all I was doing was following a good role model. Maybe it was my lack of Vulgar Latin, but the bird didn’t understand me. Instead it eyed me and flew around my head as if she’d rather nest in my hair than just fly out one of the blasted open windows that were turning my house into a refrigerator.

Finally, God had pity on me and must have told the bird in His own language where the road to freedom lay. I closed all the windows and made myself a cup of chamomile instead of my usual morning joe. I kept glancing out our front door where I could see the nest, only really satisfied when, after about ten minutes, I saw my friend back with her babies. I was worried she might abandon her children due to PTSD induced by my family.

During my standoff with the wren a thought came to my mind: If only you knew how to trust me.

My little wren was not only severely stressed out during those twenty minutes, she was also in danger (well, only technically –  in reality our cat couldn’t catch a bird if her life depended on it). And had she not finally found that way out (I’m not sure how much longer I would have been willing to deep-freeze my house), her little ones would have died in the nest.

All of it happened because we couldn’t communicate. And because she had no way to understand that I was actually trying to help her.

Sound like a perfect analogy to our relationship with God? Yup. But this time, I was on the God-side of the analogy. I was desperately trying to help the bird see what was best for her, with no ulterior motive at all (except for wanting those windows closed again!). Yet I was probably her biggest enemy today, and her young’uns might be grown before she can look me in the eye again without fear. And all of it only because she knew SO MUCH less about what the situation was actually like, where the real danger lay and what the solution to all of her perceived problems was.

But for a moment, let’s leave aside the limited perspective of wrens and other creations of God. I was astounded by my own urgency to save this bird. One of millions of birds in Georgia. One whose babies might well freeze to death the next night. One whom I will never be able to relate to, share anything with, or even distinguish from its Thousands of wren-friends. And yet this bird and its babies are for some reason important enough to me to miss my coffee and yell at my cat and fridge-ify my house.

I don’t think I will ever read Matthew 10:29 the same way again: Are not two little sparrows sold for a penny? And yet not one of them will fall to the ground without your Father’s consent and notice.

While my wren friend is feeding her firstborn outside my door right now, I am strangely comforted by the knowledge that God cares about that specific bird. And I can only imagine the love and care and the relentless, gentle pushes toward the open window that God keeps giving me and you on our journey toward trusting Him.