The Sparrows
Throughout my life I have had a love for and ability to communicate with animals, which has been remarkable to me and to others as well. It wasn’t anything intentionally learned or formally taught; it just came naturally. Big or small I would drag injured or lost animals, home to a very patient mother who allowed me to care for them. My brother Bob has the same gift, and we often recall and chuckle about this or that story both past and present, as our fascination and gifts continue.
One day my mother heard me screaming; she ran to me to discover I was sitting on a pile of red ants. It seems I was trying to watch them carry food along their path into their house. Oops! Spider webs were another fasciation, but I didn’t like the sticky web, so that took care of any interaction I would observe only. Truth is I’m still fascinated by them.
It was no doubt my Grandmother’s influence using the stories of St. Francis and his love of animals and nature that primed my curiosity. I was always investigating flowers, plants, and of course watching and catching critters and bringing them home. One such story happen when I was in the fifth grade.
One Saturday my mother dropped me off for my piano lessons. My teacher’s studio was located on the third floor of the coliseum. I hopped out of the car and headed toward the building that was set back from the street, so neither of us noticed the men busy at work cleaning out the gutters.
I could hear birds screeching and see them dashing and darting at the workers who were on the roof. They were pulling the nests out of the gutters, throwing them onto the sidewalk below. Some of the nests were full of baby chicks, many were without feathers; others were holding the precious tiny eggs yet to be hatched. The sight horrified me watching these little-unprotected babies hurled to their death. I quickly pulled off my sweater and started gathering up those that were still alive and put them in my sweater.
The men that were on the ground were scooping up the nests with their shovels dumping them into trashcans. They turned to see what I was doing then laughing at me saying I was crazy; adding that they were just dumb sparrows. Mockingly asking me “What do you I think you’re going to do with them?” Frankly, I didn’t know.
Fighting back tears I continued my rescue, attempting to save as many as possible. My sweater filled quickly, and I had nothing else to put them in. I was horrified as the execution continued; there was nothing more I could do.
I sat down on the lawn that bordered the large concert entrance area so I could now sort thru the little babies piled high in my sweater. I kept talking to them, praying that Jesus would help them and me.
By this time, my teacher had called my mother asking if I was coming to my lesson or had our plans changed? My poor mother was terrified learning that I had not reached the classroom, that something may have happened to me. Quickly, she drove back to the college campus. My teacher was checking the classrooms calling out my name, she too was very concerned.
She came out of one of the large heavy front doors to see me sitting on the ground and rushed to me firing off questions: “Are you okay? Oh, my goodness child, what are you doing? What in heaven’s name?”
By this time, my mother had arrived and running up the sidewalk. She saw tears streaming down my face, then she saw the baby birds. I had spread them out to sort the dead, injured, feathered and naked little creatures.
Between sobs, I explained about the mean workers killing all the baby birds. Both women turned to see the workers carrying out their duty. “Oh dear, I’m so sorry you had to see all this, how awful for you. She then helped me put the survivors back into my sweater. My teacher and mother walk me to the car. I was carrying my bundle of life, talking to the little creatures, fifty or more, assuring them that I would help them.
Riding back to our house my mother did forewarn me that taking care of them would be a lot of work. “I don’t care I’m going to help them.” I quickly developed a plan of action. I asked, “They eat worms, right?” She replied with a caring tone “Yes, I believe they do.”
Upon arrival I un-piled the ball of babies. Many had already died. My mother helped me by carefully and compassionately ridding the dead ones for me placing them in a shoebox so that they could have a funeral and assuring me that they would go to heaven. I then went to the garden and dug up earthworms, washed them and my mother cut them up in pieces so I could start feed them. They were really hungry I was so excited as they quickly devoured them all. Off I went back to the garden, washing and cutting up more earthworms. Finally, I made one last trip before bedtime.
The next morning, I rushed out to see how they were doing. There were those who didn’t make it through the night. My mother was always comforting and giving me hope as I shed more tears. Those lost were prepared for yet another funeral. The routine went on for weeks. A this point I had saved three. The surviving babies became more demanding, fluffing their feathers, flapping their wings, banging into each other. What a joy for me. I also knew I would have to teach them to fly. I would hold them up knee high and release them – it wasn’t working at all; they needed more height. I knew exactly what to do. I put the chicks in the pockets of my jacket They were chirping and squawking as I climbed to the roof of our three-story home.
I sat there on the roof for a few minutes, wondering if this was the right thing to do. I prayed for my little feathered friends asking God to help them fly. I very carefully moved to the edge of the roof, reached in my pocket, and took one out and released it. Disaster! I couldn’t believe it, why? Why couldn’t the little bird fly?
I was now crying, knowing that I had two more, one in each pocket. About that time my mother had come out of the house and noticed the box was empty. She called out my name; I did not answer her. For a moment she stood there with her hands on her hips looking around when suddenly she glanced up to see me standing at the edge of the roof. She realized immediately what I was doing, and tried to talk me down, by saying how unsafe it was for me to be up there. “Mommy they have to learn how to fly and I only have two left what am I doing wrong, why can’t they fly?” I realize now, of course she was praying. “It’s up to God, if he want them to fly they will, but you are more important than two sparrows and you need to come down.” With that I reached into my pockets and pulled them out, tossed them up as high as I could and over the edge of the roof, shouting, commending the to “FLY!” They did!!!
I have a beautiful 15 x 18 inch picture of two sparrows sitting on a branch. Each morning as I walk by that picture it reminds me that I am of more value than two sparrows and that I won’t fall to the ground without my Father’s consent.
