Screeching teenagers

There was an unholy row outside the kitchen window yesterday afternoon. Bird screechings and scoldings. It sounded like something was being tortured or being told off--I couldn't tell which. But then I saw them and knew that I was seeing myself.

A mother grackle was at fever pitch, pulling worms and bugs out of the grass. All the while, four young croaky, newly feathered offspring poked and prodded her, hoping to be fed whatever bird delicacies she found. She could not move fast enough. She couldn't provide enough. Her babies were babies no longer. They could fly, but didn't know how to do much more than follow her around. Yet their screeching and poking seemed disdainful and betrayed their irritability. I marveled at the mother's efforts to meet the demands of that noisy brood.

It's what teenagers all the world over, do to their parents. They're old enough to talk and be reasoned with. They don't need supervision or direction about hygiene or caring for themselves. Yet the unspoken emotional and social uncertainties cause them at times to poke and prod their parents out of frustration. Parents can't do enough, fast enough, or right enough to satisfy their irritable demands that are unclear even to themselves at times.

So I watched the birds, listened to their racket, lost in thought. There was something about the busyness and good nature of the mother that reminded me of my own mother. She never gave up trying to provide for us, even though we were irritable, distant, and demanding. Just last week, I received one of her many packets in the mail, full of newspaper clippings, the church newsletter, and a bulletin from a concert that she and my father recently attended. She's still giving, God love her. I only pray that at 46 years of age, I am more gracious than the half-grown, immature birds outside the window.