Friday. The rain is washing the yellow off of Northwest Georgia to turn the creeks and ditches a lovely shade of striped. My coworkers are bustling in under umbrellas and coats, dodging raindrops and looking only to the ground before them. If they turn their heads but a little…
Everything takes on a serene hue of clarity. With the air clear and the world baptized, things are the color they should be. There’s a smell to the air of damp moss and pine. The grass is beginning to leave its brown jacket of winter and spring forth in its annual greening. Against the green, the gray stands out to me. It must have hit the wall of my work building and fallen. In some kind of morbid curiosity, I touch it. The tiny body is still warm, its life still falling away from it. The feathers are so soft. Variations of gray wrap the graceful body as I pick it up gently. I cup the little bird in my hands and can feel the remnants of its warmth on my palm. Such a little thing.
“Not a sparrow falls…” The words came unbidden to my lips as I whisper to the sweet bird. Its feet are curved as if it grasps a branch. Intricate and beautiful. The very tip of its beak curved into a hook. Its eye was open only a fraction and it was difficult to imagine that this amazing creature was dead. In my mind’s eye, I saw it open its eyes and shake off the impact. It stretched its wings and fluffed those lovely silver feathers. The clouds beckoned it, and it lofted itself from my hands into the sky.
I blinked and the image was gone. The lifeless body was still in my hand, its warmth transferring to me. Were those raindrops on my face? No, but they could be. I carried it away from the building. This would not be where it rested. I would not allow that. Together, we found a place under the shelter of a white pine. As the last wisps left it, I laid the bird at the base of the tree and made a decision: if there are no birds in Heaven, then I don’t want to go.
I doubt very much that they are denied entrance, however. After all, not a sparrow falls that He does not know it. The clouds DO beckon. That sweet little bird is flying as it’s never flown before. It will never grow tired. Its wings will never fail and the winds will never cease to carry it. Fly to forever, little bird, and enjoy your eternal springtime.