Encouragement

The first House Finch this spring built her nest in under a day.

From start to finish, less than twenty-four hours.

It was impressive.

She worked all alone and she worked fast.  The nest looked strong if not a bit lopsided, and I worried that it just wasn’t balanced well up under the porch eave.

The House Finch was jumpy.  Not just when I opened the front door to check the mail, but anytime someone walked by the house or another bird flew too close.  The House Finch would flee her nest before returning a short time later.

I worried more about her, because she was all alone.

But days passed and I crossed my fingers that all would be well.

But all was not well.  One day, I looked out the window and saw the nest hanging off the side of the post.  I stepped out onto the porch, dreading what I would find.  The house finch flew around my head, flapping her wings and screeching.

The eggs had fallen out of the nest.

There were five of them.

They had been close to hatching.

But the fall and the premature birth were not survivable.

I ducked back inside the house and cried before pulling myself together and disposing of the fallen nest and cleaning up the porch.

In the springtime in Florida, I loved nesting season.  I loved walking the wetlands and watching Great Blue Herons, Anhingas, Snowy Egrets and Roseate Spoonbills building their nests and then caring for their young.

There were also Sandhill Cranes just down the road from me who always nested at the same time each year.  Every spring, I was treated to Sandhill Crane babies.

And when the swans that lived in the development next to me, made their nest by the main road, they attracted enough paparazzi you’d think they were royalty.

But not every baby bird lives.  One week there were two Sandhill Crane babies following their parents around and the next week there would just be one.

One day, a Great Blue Heron nest perched high on a palm tree, had two babies screaming for their mother, but in one summer of drought, she couldn’t find any fish and tried desperately to get them to eat a snake, and then one day the nest was empty.

I have learned, over the years, to never name any of the baby birds.

But even nameless, their deaths still moved me.

And then to have it happen right on my porch … what can I say … I have a sensitive, tender soul, a sensitive, tender soul that I have come to cherish and view as a strength, even if it means, crying with a House Finch who has lost her nest.

I thought maybe the House Finch might return, might rebuild and try again.  I even bought a bird house that I thought I might hang on the back porch where I knew the finches sometimes slept at night and which was safer and less hectic than the front of the house.

But before I could do any of that, a few weeks after the nest fell, two new House Finches began scouting my front porch.

A male and female House Finch flew immediately to the spot where the last nest had been built.  They pecked at it a little and then were ready to close.  The female began almost immediately building the nest, while the male stayed nearby, sitting on the rain gutter and singing to her.

In one scenario, I imagine her talking back to him and telling him to be quiet, she’s working, and then him arguing with her, telling her she missed a spot, and her finally getting so upset, she stops, stares at him and asks him if he wants to build the nest.

He raises his wings.  “No, I’m good—you’re good, keep going.”

That’s one scenario.

I prefer the scenario where the male is doing exactly what it sounds like he’s doing.  He’s singing to her as she works.  And in that song are notes of encouragement.  His song tells her she’s not alone.  She doesn’t have to do this by herself.

I think this female is different from the one who lost her nest.  She seems different.  She works slower.  As I write this, they are on day 3 of their build—I say “they” even though the female does all the actual building.  But she is taking her time, making sure she is getting it right.

This morning, when I stepped outside, neither bird flew away immediately.  They weren’t jumpy.  I introduced myself.  I don’t want them to panic every time they see me because they will see a lot of me in the next few weeks.

They gave me a few seconds and then flew away, but not in a fearful way.

I like to think they’re not afraid because they have each other.

Recently, if I’m remembering correctly, both Zig and Jane’s Sunday sermons discussed the importance of community.  Though we celebrated our church’s namesake, St. Barnabas day this past Sunday, it is actually today that is officially St. Barnabas day and we see in our reading from Acts 4:32-37 that Barnabas was a man named Joseph from Cyprus who had sold his field and laid the money at the apostles’ feet.  He was given the name Barnabas which means, “son of encouragement.”

And I imagine that is why we call ourselves here at St. Barnabas a community of encouragement.

“Look to the birds of the air,” Jesus tells us in Matthew 6:26.  That particular lesson was on worry and anxiety, but keep looking.  Look at the birds.  Look at what the House Finches on my porch can teach us about the importance of community and encouragement. 

I have no idea how this nest will turn out.

But every morning I wake up to the sound of the House Finches singing.

And I am encouraged—and I am hopeful.

Amen.

 

Postscript: The House Finch is now nesting.  I’m assuming her mate is nearby but no longer guarding her.  He is no longer singing to her.  Now she is the one who is singing to her eggs.  The cycle of love continues.