Bird

I could see the purple martin’s heart beating wildly through his tiny, puffed up chest; his beady eyes blinking fiercely as he lay in my father’s palm, his wings pinned by my father’s gentle fingertips to keep him from flying away.

My fearless little friend had a string of floss wrapped around his toothpick leg, and I was carefully working to disentangle him without pulling his leg or cutting it in two with a careless pinch of my tweezers. He had been chained to his nest by the floss—clearly it had been chosen for building material, but had come loose and entwined itself to the bird’s leg, preventing him from leaving his nest. I noticed him, struggling valiantly against his tethers, while walking by the nest he and his family had built in an exterior corner of my house. They built this nest perhaps two or three years ago, and have always returned at the end of every winter. The ferocity and pride of this little family had left an impression on me, and I stood for a moment watching him fight the floss, debating whether I should help him or leave him to die with his dignity and pride intact.

After watching him attempt to fly away numerous times in a grand show of feathers and might, only to flop awkwardly back to his nest where his leg was immovably chained, his beady eyes peered at me over the top of his nest, warily suspicious of what I might do while he was thus ensnared. He was clearly irate with his situation, but perhaps more irate that he needed help. A few minutes later, my father and I had gently removed him from his nest, and I set to work trying to remove the offending floss.

As I worked, I could feel my admiration for the bird’s fearlessness and tenacity growing. But mingled with my admiration was a newfound sense of responsibility and love. I was the witness to two very powerful lessons that day: The impact of my choices on the environment, and how much God cares for even the smallest of creatures. This bird had gathered up what he hoped would be the best materials to build his nest, only to be caught by them. There was no mistake; a simple negligence on my part, such as possibly allowing the floss to fly out of the garbage bag, had almost deadly repercussions for this tiny bird.

This bird obviously felt he was a fearsome warrior, but at the moment he was utterly vulnerable and helpless. I could sense his wounded pride that he needed help, mixed with relief that he was receiving it. I felt like a mother who watches her small, independent child stick out his chest and bravely go out to conquer the world, only to run back and hide his tear-streaked face in his mother’s skirt because he skinned his knee.

That moment, as I have found, was also a powerful demonstration to me of God’s love for even the smallest of creatures:

“Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father.” (Matthew 10:29, ESV)

I often hear Christians say animals will not go to heaven because they do not have souls. I disagree. God’s creation, in my mind, is a manifestation of Him and His power and love—why would He discard them after their time on earth ends? He took special care to design them, down to the tiniest detail, and saved them from the ravages of the flood. This argument seems to be born of Christian backlash against “New Age” ideas; in particular the worship of the earth and created things. Few Christians seem to marvel in God’s design long enough to allow themselves to worship the Creator for the marvelous intricacies of His creation, and are possibly hindering their understanding and enjoyment of Him by doing so. For who can sit next to a centuries-old tree and not find comfort knowing their God is likewise sturdy and strong, with ancient roots that run deep in the soils of wisdom? Who can carefully study the small details of a simple daisy, and not be worshipfully overwhelmed at its thousands of complex, intricate details? Who can find a cool, windswept respite in the shadow of a tree on a warm day, and not praise the Maker’s gentle eye, watching over us and providing for our needs?

Descriptions of nature abound throughout the Old and New Testament to illuminate moral lessons, clarify proverbs, illustrate beautiful scenes, and give silent but powerful testimonies to the glory of God. Modern Christians seem to have cast off the importance of these descriptions, yet seek to find wisdom and life lessons hidden in scriptures rife with natural allegories. But can we expect to understand one without understanding the other? What new depths could a deeper understanding and appreciation for the natural world bring us as we plumb the mysteries of God’s Word?

An accident as simple as finding a bird whose leg had become entangled to a piece of floss provided invaluable firsthand lessons about environmental stewardship, and the love God feels for even the smallest members of His creation. Yet if I were averse to understanding God through His creation, I might have missed these lessons. For how can I witness His concern and provision for that tiny purple martin, and not revel and rejoice in how much more He cares for me?