This morning I stepped out of my office into the hall of our counseling building into the midst of flapping wings that sailed past my head. A mourning dove had gotten inside through the open windows of the courtyard. The panicky little thing sailed off down the hall at knee level, rounding the corner toward the religion department. Hearing my gasp of surprise, my next door neighbor appeared at her office door wearing a black plastic file holder over her head.
"That bird was in here yesterday and I shooed it out the window. It must have gotten back in" she said matter of factly.
"And you are wearing a file holder on your head because..."
She lifted it off. "To protect myself from that thing."
Obviously not a country girl. No need to protect herself from that terrified little dove. She looked ridiculous.
I wondered if I could catch it. I'm not sure what I thought I would catch a bird with, but I went around the corner where I had seen it disappear. There it was on the floor looking very tired. A mourning dove looks washed out color wise anyhow, and this little one looked worn down to nothing. It must have been in the building for quite some time because there was quite a collection of bird droppings on the floor under the window.
As I got closer, the bird lifted off and sailed down the hall and around the corner back toward our department (the hall is in a rectangle with an atrium in the center). Hustling down the hall past the bank of windows, I noticed another dove looking very curiously over the edge of the building. It was making its little "whoo-whup-whoo" sounds, probably calling for its mate. That devastated me. Mourning doves mate for life and when one dies, the other kind of hangs around until it dies, alone. It is tragic and the thought was very sad. I don't know about other people, but I'm particularly torn up inside when I see animals who are hurt or scared. It is almost unbearable, so my level of motivation to help this dove was extremely high. I was afraid it would be so scared or dehydrated that it would drop dead if I frightened it too badly.
It flapped up into a window by the side door of the building. There was a 12-inch ledge and the dove hovered up against the warm glass of the window where the sun was beaming in. It would have been a good spot except being dehydrated, it probably was not good for it to be in the sun.
The problem with that perch was that it was about 10 feet over our heads and in a stairwell. There was no way to open the window over its head--I tried, with a broomstick. Then I picked up a fake tree and tried to sweep it across the windowsill to get it to fly down. Nothing but flapping wings. That was definitely not the thing to do.
By now, two students and my neighbor with the file case over her head, were all wringing their hands and near tears. A bird can't fly into a therapy department and not have an array of feeling responses from the faculty.
Finally, a maintenance man happened by with a long handled broom, knocked the bird out of the window into a trash can and released it out the front door. The little thing flew off immediately so it must have had both strength and enough moisture in its body to do so. We all heaved a sigh of relief before we ran around the halls shutting windows. The dove on the roof flew off to join its mate.
If I was so concerned about this innocent, albeit, not-so-smart bird, what must God's heart of boundless love feel about it--and all the other lost birds, dogs, children, people--in this sin filled world?
God sees the little sparrow fall,
It meets His tender view;
If God so loves the little birds,
I know He loves me, too.
God paints the lily of the field
Perfumes each lily bell;
If He so loves the little flowers
I know He loves me well.
God made the little birds and flowers
And all things large and small;
He'll not forget His little ones,
I know He loves them all.
He loves me too,
He loves me, too--I know He loves me too.
Because He loves the little things;
I know He loves me, too.
Original Trinity Hymnal, #635.
Maria Straub, 1874.
No comments:
Post a Comment