Five rectangle-shaped reading glasses, in different colors, perched on five different noses, including my own.
That's what I noticed yesterday during Bible study with a group of seven women.
The other two ladies, without glasses, are young mothers and wives, their toddlers (one each) busy in play, the mothers' attention skillfully divided between their children and our study.
Us "oldies" are all about the same age, late 40s to mid-50s, with a wide range of life experiences.
We commiserate with the younger, 20-something moms, and remember life at that stage.
One young woman is pregnant with her second child, and her husband is a student at the local university. The other is satisfied for now with her one child, and branching out into designing accessories again, which she did "before."
While we pondered over I Thessalonians, we laughed, shared our stories and experiences based on what we studied. Children dandled on our knees and were handed small, healthy treats.
It's strange to be in that place of being an older woman with 30 years of house-wifing and motherhood behind me.
I don't feel that old. Likely it's because I understand that there is still a lot to learn about life, love and other mysteries. My journey isn't over.
Yet I find that I am in a position to be an example, to offer advice, to help answer oh-so-many questions about raising children and living with a husband, in addition to scriptural principles I have learned, and am still learning.
I think of the Bible verse, Titus 2:3-5, "Likewise, teach the older women to be reverent in the way they live, not to be slanderers or addicted to much wine, but to teach what is good. Then they can train the younger women to love their husbands and children, to be self-controlled and pure, to be busy at home, to be kind, and be subject to their husbands, so that no one will malign the word of God."
There are older women I have met that make me cringe with their loud-mouth ways and garish outfits, who belittle their husbands, laugh about it and encourage others to do the same.
There are also older women whom I admire and want to emulate with their sense of humor, loving ways to everyone, and honesty.
My desire is to be the latter.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Meandering thoughts
Writer's block.
The dreaded constipation of coherant thinking and creative process.
I sit at my desk. Stare out the window.
I see a windmill replica in my yard. Its aluminum blades with red tips lazily turn with a breeze from the northwest. Round and round...like my thoughts.
Perhaps my problem is that the breeze from the northeast brings with it wisps of memories from my "other" life.
Perhaps that is why my thoughts are frozen in place this frigid morning in the southern hemisphere's winter.
Too much information to process. Friends from 30 years ago have surfaced lately on Facebook.
Along with those friends, memories that were buried under the ashes of time are revealed.
I am reminded of figures frozen in hot ash in Pompeii from the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius. Day after day, memories long buried under several layers come back to my mind. Some are heart-warming, some make me laugh. Others make me cringe.
God does His work in mysterious ways, we are told. As a youth, I heard it. As a young adult, I heard it. As a middle-aged woman with children raised and a grandchild, I begin to understand it.
One of the scriptures that consistently comes to mind lately is Psalm 18:19, "He brought me out into a spacious place; He rescued me because He delighted in me."
The early years of my life were hard. The middle years of my life were hard bordering on excruciating, and this verse kept popping up when I read the Bible. During those hard times, I found it, relied on it, prayed for it to happen, and believed it would someday, but always with a bit of reservation in my faith because I didn't want to be disappointed in anyone or anything anymore.
But here I am, literally in a spacious place. Australia is largely uninhabited (compare the size as similar to the United States, with a fraction of the population) and very spacious. I can drive on some days near the country town I live in and not see another car on the road.
Over the last few weeks of reconnecting with friends from my youth, memories have surfaced. As a result some scars are throbbing.
But I am glad for that.
Because my scars are testimony of God's healing work in my life, and a reminder that I have truly been brought into a spacious place. He rescued me because He delighted in me.
And so, my writer's block hasn't necessarily ended...I've just danced around a few thoughts.
I hope they make sense.
If not, I'll try again later.
The dreaded constipation of coherant thinking and creative process.
I sit at my desk. Stare out the window.
I see a windmill replica in my yard. Its aluminum blades with red tips lazily turn with a breeze from the northwest. Round and round...like my thoughts.
Perhaps my problem is that the breeze from the northeast brings with it wisps of memories from my "other" life.
Perhaps that is why my thoughts are frozen in place this frigid morning in the southern hemisphere's winter.
Too much information to process. Friends from 30 years ago have surfaced lately on Facebook.
Along with those friends, memories that were buried under the ashes of time are revealed.
I am reminded of figures frozen in hot ash in Pompeii from the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius. Day after day, memories long buried under several layers come back to my mind. Some are heart-warming, some make me laugh. Others make me cringe.
God does His work in mysterious ways, we are told. As a youth, I heard it. As a young adult, I heard it. As a middle-aged woman with children raised and a grandchild, I begin to understand it.
One of the scriptures that consistently comes to mind lately is Psalm 18:19, "He brought me out into a spacious place; He rescued me because He delighted in me."
The early years of my life were hard. The middle years of my life were hard bordering on excruciating, and this verse kept popping up when I read the Bible. During those hard times, I found it, relied on it, prayed for it to happen, and believed it would someday, but always with a bit of reservation in my faith because I didn't want to be disappointed in anyone or anything anymore.
But here I am, literally in a spacious place. Australia is largely uninhabited (compare the size as similar to the United States, with a fraction of the population) and very spacious. I can drive on some days near the country town I live in and not see another car on the road.
Over the last few weeks of reconnecting with friends from my youth, memories have surfaced. As a result some scars are throbbing.
But I am glad for that.
Because my scars are testimony of God's healing work in my life, and a reminder that I have truly been brought into a spacious place. He rescued me because He delighted in me.
And so, my writer's block hasn't necessarily ended...I've just danced around a few thoughts.
I hope they make sense.
If not, I'll try again later.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Precocious child on the river (revised)
By Heidi Wallenborn-Cramer
"Have you ever been on a locomotive?"
"Why are flies black?"
"Why do bees sting you?"
"How far have you traveled on that boat?"
"I don't like eggs. Why do you?"
"The Easter Bunny leaves me chocolate eggs. Do you know why?"
On our last of five days on the Glenelg River in Australia over Easter weekend, I was peppered by questions from a five-year-old like buckshot from a 12-guage rifle.
My husband Steve and I had settled in for the night. We moored our small sailing yacht at Saunders Landing and took the outboard tinny out to fish before sunset. No one was at the offshore picnic area we chose. In fact, it seemed that no one was around for several miles.
Steve lit the wood-fueled barbecue. We cooked steaks, sautéed some onion, and baked corn-on-the-cob and potatoes in foil. While eating at the picnic table, we settled in for a game of Scrabble. Dusk turned to night, and we enjoyed the sounds of sleepy parrots and other birds settling in.
Midway through the board game by flashlight, with our dinner nearly finished, we heard a foghorn-like Australian female voice drifting over black water, "Hoy! Yeah mate! That's the place we saw earlier today, mate! Oi! There's boats there! But I'm sure it's the same place! Oi! It looks like two boats are there! Pull in anyway! Oi! I see lights! Pull in hard right, mate! I'll watch out!"
Chagrined, Steve and I helped these boaters who tried to navigate with flashlights the black, snag-filled river underneath a black, star-filled sky. My husband got our tinny out of the way and helped them get their old houseboat into the dock. When finished, we invited them to share a yarn or two by our fire while sipping sparkling wine.
This couple, older than Steve and I in our late 40s, had a five-year-old son with them.
Campbell was precocious, to say the least, and an absolute delight. Curious, he processed information quickly. He noticed our interrupted Scrabble game and asked questions about the letters on squares with tiny numbers in the corner. I explained the game to him while the others gathered around the campfire. I enjoyed watching him learn. He was fascinated with our flashlight and randomly turned it on and off. He lit up the surrounding gum trees looking for ring-tailed possums and koalas. He asked about how far light goes.
I replied, "How far do you think light goes?"
He pondered a moment and answered, "As far as I can see."
"Really?" I said. By this time the moon had risen and sailed above the horizon. "But light travels so much farther than we can see. What if someone was on that moon over there and saw your light? Do you think that could happen?"
Campbell didn't answer, he stared at the moon.
"What about the stars?" I asked. "What if the light shining down to us from space was really a bunch of people on planets with flashlights shining them in our direction--hoping we would see them?"
Campbell looked at me quizzically and said, "Flashlight?"
"I mean torch," I said. (Australians refer to flashlights as torches.)
Thinking about that for a minute, he smiled. With a childish laugh, Campbell discounted the idea. "Nah," he said. "That's just too far away."
The child was distracted then by Steve offering a perfectly melted marshmallow from a stick over the fire. As the evening wore on, the little fella was ushered off to bed on his parent's houseboat.
“Oi!” his mother called to me, trailing after her husband who held her sleeping son. “He’s pretty smart, ain’t he?”
"Have you ever been on a locomotive?"
"Why are flies black?"
"Why do bees sting you?"
"How far have you traveled on that boat?"
"I don't like eggs. Why do you?"
"The Easter Bunny leaves me chocolate eggs. Do you know why?"
On our last of five days on the Glenelg River in Australia over Easter weekend, I was peppered by questions from a five-year-old like buckshot from a 12-guage rifle.
My husband Steve and I had settled in for the night. We moored our small sailing yacht at Saunders Landing and took the outboard tinny out to fish before sunset. No one was at the offshore picnic area we chose. In fact, it seemed that no one was around for several miles.
Steve lit the wood-fueled barbecue. We cooked steaks, sautéed some onion, and baked corn-on-the-cob and potatoes in foil. While eating at the picnic table, we settled in for a game of Scrabble. Dusk turned to night, and we enjoyed the sounds of sleepy parrots and other birds settling in.
Midway through the board game by flashlight, with our dinner nearly finished, we heard a foghorn-like Australian female voice drifting over black water, "Hoy! Yeah mate! That's the place we saw earlier today, mate! Oi! There's boats there! But I'm sure it's the same place! Oi! It looks like two boats are there! Pull in anyway! Oi! I see lights! Pull in hard right, mate! I'll watch out!"
Chagrined, Steve and I helped these boaters who tried to navigate with flashlights the black, snag-filled river underneath a black, star-filled sky. My husband got our tinny out of the way and helped them get their old houseboat into the dock. When finished, we invited them to share a yarn or two by our fire while sipping sparkling wine.
This couple, older than Steve and I in our late 40s, had a five-year-old son with them.
Campbell was precocious, to say the least, and an absolute delight. Curious, he processed information quickly. He noticed our interrupted Scrabble game and asked questions about the letters on squares with tiny numbers in the corner. I explained the game to him while the others gathered around the campfire. I enjoyed watching him learn. He was fascinated with our flashlight and randomly turned it on and off. He lit up the surrounding gum trees looking for ring-tailed possums and koalas. He asked about how far light goes.
I replied, "How far do you think light goes?"
He pondered a moment and answered, "As far as I can see."
"Really?" I said. By this time the moon had risen and sailed above the horizon. "But light travels so much farther than we can see. What if someone was on that moon over there and saw your light? Do you think that could happen?"
Campbell didn't answer, he stared at the moon.
"What about the stars?" I asked. "What if the light shining down to us from space was really a bunch of people on planets with flashlights shining them in our direction--hoping we would see them?"
Campbell looked at me quizzically and said, "Flashlight?"
"I mean torch," I said. (Australians refer to flashlights as torches.)
Thinking about that for a minute, he smiled. With a childish laugh, Campbell discounted the idea. "Nah," he said. "That's just too far away."
The child was distracted then by Steve offering a perfectly melted marshmallow from a stick over the fire. As the evening wore on, the little fella was ushered off to bed on his parent's houseboat.
“Oi!” his mother called to me, trailing after her husband who held her sleeping son. “He’s pretty smart, ain’t he?”
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
The story of Little Bird and Cat
In a land far away east of Eden and not far from Nod, there is a copse of stately trees in a circle.
These are not ordinary trees. Their strong, beautiful branches are laden with silver-filigreed leaves that shelter ripe, luscious fruit of every kind and color.
Birds with vibrant plumage live in little hollows in these trees. They live peaceful lives under the watch of the bird council. This council is made up of very wise, older male birds whose adornments set them apart from their ordinary wives and other, lesser birds. But they rule their kingdom strictly and fairly.
All these birds live in the copse safe from every danger, except for the cats that live in a community nearby raising their own little families. The bird council make efforts at keeping peace with the ferocious felines, and some even believe that cats can be made into birds if they just try hard enough, or want to be a bird badly enough.
And so, dear reader, we visit a little, grey female bird who listened to the council of wise, elderly birds. A stray cat befriended her, and she began to think that not all felines are bad. This one, anyway, seemed very nice.
Little Bird made a place for her new friend in her home. He was so warm and cuddly, and was so very nice. He brought home gifts of mice and squirrels from neighboring communities, and even though she couldn't enjoy those gifts as much as Cat did, she was glad for his thoughtfulness in bringing her things.
It wasn't long before Little Bird realized that Cat wasn't going to change into a bird. She looked carefully along his fur as she preened him with her little beak, but there were no signs of small, unfurling feathers against his skin. His smile still showed sharp, needle-like teeth, and his claws grew longer and sharper, not shorter.
But more than those signs, Cat began to show his true feline nature. He watched his little grey bird as she puttered around her little hole in a tree at the edge of the copse, his eyes like green slits. His tail twitched, his eyes narrowed, his body tensed, and he pounced on the helpless little bird for fun. But he never hurt her enough to kill her. She was his toy now, like a ball of yarn to pounce on and chase and sink his teeth into just enough to hurt, but not puncture.
Frightened, Little Bird went to the council for help. She stood before the group of eleven, brilliant birds in a special tree used for such meetings. In the dim light entering the chamber, they could see that her feathers drooped, her eyes were dull, and she looked as if she was molting in patches.
Little Bird told her sad story. Although the council was not happy that she had allowed such a cat into her home, they encouraged her to keep trying to make peace. With enough patience and goodness, Cat can turn into a bird, they said. They have heard lots of stories from other communities where that had happened. They assured her they would be there to help her and support her, but that she should go back and do her best to change him...and pray to their God.
Reluctantly, the obedient little bird went home. When Cat found out what she'd done he pounced on her again and pinned her underneath his heavy paw while he hissed and spat in her face. As she lay there, she cried out to the great God who made her and waited for the rampage to end.
Remembering the advice of the wise bird council, she went about seeing to Cat's needs and whims without complaint. She made squirrel stew and mouse steak because he still brought these home. But they were not gifts anymore. They were products of his labor, he said, and it was her job to use them for his pleasure.
Cat's cleverness continued along with daily pouncings and terror-inducing games. But he decided that if he was going to keep living in the bird community, he should at least try to fit in. So he went to weekly bird meetings on Sundays where all the birds sang to their God and listened to one of the wise bird council members speak. Being a cat, he never tried to sing, because he knew he would stand out as not a true bird because of his caterwauling. And every Sunday, Cat took some of the feathers he'd stripped off his Little Bird and carefully glued them in places on his sleek body so that other birds could see he was a changing cat. As for the bald spots on Little Bird where her feathers were gone, she learned to artfully arrange what was left very carefully so no one would know.
But still the torture continued. After one especially horrible attack where her spindly legs were nearly unhinged from her body, she went to the council again. Please help me, she said. I am afraid for my life.
This time, a few older council members went to talk to Cat. Surprised at being confronted about his hidden behavior, the feline admitted to some of his wrongdoings. Giant tears fell down his whiskers and dropped onto his soft paws as he asked for their help to become a bird like them.
The older birds congratulated themselves on a job well done and set about having Little Bird and Cat meet for counselling every two weeks.
At first, Cat was better. Little Bird stood up to him when he crouched in position ready to strike, and threatened to call the head bird on council. But after several months of behaving himself, Cat couldn't hold back anymore. Neighbor birds heard him screeching and howling at night. But they stayed silent and didn't offer to help. After all, changing from a cat to a bird can't be an easy thing to do.
One night, Cat snapped. As Little Bird sat near him watching him eat his liver pie, he screeched and hissed and spat at her. His eyes became green slits, his tail twitched, and this time when he pounced, he sank his teeth into her. But as he let go to throw her into her little nest, she escaped! She flew and flew, around the house and out the hole in the tree, and all around the neighborhood until she couldn't fly anymore. Cat bounded out of the tree and meowed sweetly for her to come home (other birds were watching, you know) but she didn't. She landed on the edge of the community in tall grass and fainted.
Well, you would think that would be the end of cat living there, wouldn't you? He was punished after neighbors found Little Bird. Big crows came and took him to a special tree with bars and made him stay there awhile. When the crows let him out, he was told not to go near Little Bird. He was so sorry about what happened, and so afraid that the crows would take him back to that horrible hole, that he didn't. He agreed with the council that Little Bird needed time to heal because he hadn't been very nice and understanding after all. But he arranged with a few, not-very-smart little birds to send secret messages to her. The letters, written on very thin leaves, were spotted with Cat's tears, and in every line he said how sorry he was.
The wise elders of the bird council saw that he was sorry, and still had hope that he could become a bird because he wanted to so badly. So they let him come back to Sunday meetings, but only if he would stay away from Little Bird.
But Little Bird wasn't fooled anymore. She knew about all the times he had dressed himself up in her feathers, and he had amassed quite a few. He wore them all the time now. She saw clearly that he had glued a piece of plastic to the top part of his nose to look like a beak, and that the thin little feathers sprouting next to his trimmed whiskers and along his body were stitched on. Little Bird was amazed that only a few other birds recognized that this cat sprouting grey and white feathers was not a bird.
Even though Cat had promised to stay away from Little Bird at Sunday meetings, and he knew crows were waiting to take him away if he misbehaved, he prowled around the hollow rooms in the meeting tree, looking for her. He always told other birds how sad he was and he only wanted another chance to show Little Bird he loved her. Sometimes he snuck into the back of a room where Little Bird was...and sat there...and stared at her with his slitty, green eyes.
After three years, the wise birdmen were impatient with Little Bird. They wondered why she wouldn't give him another chance and let him come home. They wanted to know why she couldn't see the changes in him. If he was going to kill you, he would have done it by now, they said.
The last time Little Bird appeared before council, she didn't look at all like the bird she used to be. She walked with a limp, one wing was crooked, she had bald patches where luxuriant feathers used to grow, and there were scars all over her little frame. She stood with head bowed, because she was so tired of trying to make them understand that Cat was only pretending to be a bird. She warned them that he was only playing cat-and-mouse games with them. But they didn't listen. After all, she's only a silly little bird who let him into her home in the first place, they said. She made her nest and now she must sit in it.
On this day, the in the dim lighting of the council chambers, with the sound of happy birds singing outside, eleven brilliant birds in vibrant cloaks of many colors looked at Little Bird with pity. But their pity for Cat was greater. They turned her away one last time and told her that she is actually the one who needs help. She must forgive Cat, they said, and to understand that cats can be birds after all, if they are given enough patience, time, care, and prayers to their God.
Little Bird left the council chambers for the last time.
There in the hallway, hiding in a corner, was Cat, covered with stitched-on feathers and a plastic beak. He pounced, with teeth bared and claws unsheathed.
Little Bird was no more. She flew away.
These are not ordinary trees. Their strong, beautiful branches are laden with silver-filigreed leaves that shelter ripe, luscious fruit of every kind and color.
Birds with vibrant plumage live in little hollows in these trees. They live peaceful lives under the watch of the bird council. This council is made up of very wise, older male birds whose adornments set them apart from their ordinary wives and other, lesser birds. But they rule their kingdom strictly and fairly.
All these birds live in the copse safe from every danger, except for the cats that live in a community nearby raising their own little families. The bird council make efforts at keeping peace with the ferocious felines, and some even believe that cats can be made into birds if they just try hard enough, or want to be a bird badly enough.
And so, dear reader, we visit a little, grey female bird who listened to the council of wise, elderly birds. A stray cat befriended her, and she began to think that not all felines are bad. This one, anyway, seemed very nice.
Little Bird made a place for her new friend in her home. He was so warm and cuddly, and was so very nice. He brought home gifts of mice and squirrels from neighboring communities, and even though she couldn't enjoy those gifts as much as Cat did, she was glad for his thoughtfulness in bringing her things.
It wasn't long before Little Bird realized that Cat wasn't going to change into a bird. She looked carefully along his fur as she preened him with her little beak, but there were no signs of small, unfurling feathers against his skin. His smile still showed sharp, needle-like teeth, and his claws grew longer and sharper, not shorter.
But more than those signs, Cat began to show his true feline nature. He watched his little grey bird as she puttered around her little hole in a tree at the edge of the copse, his eyes like green slits. His tail twitched, his eyes narrowed, his body tensed, and he pounced on the helpless little bird for fun. But he never hurt her enough to kill her. She was his toy now, like a ball of yarn to pounce on and chase and sink his teeth into just enough to hurt, but not puncture.
Frightened, Little Bird went to the council for help. She stood before the group of eleven, brilliant birds in a special tree used for such meetings. In the dim light entering the chamber, they could see that her feathers drooped, her eyes were dull, and she looked as if she was molting in patches.
Little Bird told her sad story. Although the council was not happy that she had allowed such a cat into her home, they encouraged her to keep trying to make peace. With enough patience and goodness, Cat can turn into a bird, they said. They have heard lots of stories from other communities where that had happened. They assured her they would be there to help her and support her, but that she should go back and do her best to change him...and pray to their God.
Reluctantly, the obedient little bird went home. When Cat found out what she'd done he pounced on her again and pinned her underneath his heavy paw while he hissed and spat in her face. As she lay there, she cried out to the great God who made her and waited for the rampage to end.
Remembering the advice of the wise bird council, she went about seeing to Cat's needs and whims without complaint. She made squirrel stew and mouse steak because he still brought these home. But they were not gifts anymore. They were products of his labor, he said, and it was her job to use them for his pleasure.
Cat's cleverness continued along with daily pouncings and terror-inducing games. But he decided that if he was going to keep living in the bird community, he should at least try to fit in. So he went to weekly bird meetings on Sundays where all the birds sang to their God and listened to one of the wise bird council members speak. Being a cat, he never tried to sing, because he knew he would stand out as not a true bird because of his caterwauling. And every Sunday, Cat took some of the feathers he'd stripped off his Little Bird and carefully glued them in places on his sleek body so that other birds could see he was a changing cat. As for the bald spots on Little Bird where her feathers were gone, she learned to artfully arrange what was left very carefully so no one would know.
But still the torture continued. After one especially horrible attack where her spindly legs were nearly unhinged from her body, she went to the council again. Please help me, she said. I am afraid for my life.
This time, a few older council members went to talk to Cat. Surprised at being confronted about his hidden behavior, the feline admitted to some of his wrongdoings. Giant tears fell down his whiskers and dropped onto his soft paws as he asked for their help to become a bird like them.
The older birds congratulated themselves on a job well done and set about having Little Bird and Cat meet for counselling every two weeks.
At first, Cat was better. Little Bird stood up to him when he crouched in position ready to strike, and threatened to call the head bird on council. But after several months of behaving himself, Cat couldn't hold back anymore. Neighbor birds heard him screeching and howling at night. But they stayed silent and didn't offer to help. After all, changing from a cat to a bird can't be an easy thing to do.
One night, Cat snapped. As Little Bird sat near him watching him eat his liver pie, he screeched and hissed and spat at her. His eyes became green slits, his tail twitched, and this time when he pounced, he sank his teeth into her. But as he let go to throw her into her little nest, she escaped! She flew and flew, around the house and out the hole in the tree, and all around the neighborhood until she couldn't fly anymore. Cat bounded out of the tree and meowed sweetly for her to come home (other birds were watching, you know) but she didn't. She landed on the edge of the community in tall grass and fainted.
Well, you would think that would be the end of cat living there, wouldn't you? He was punished after neighbors found Little Bird. Big crows came and took him to a special tree with bars and made him stay there awhile. When the crows let him out, he was told not to go near Little Bird. He was so sorry about what happened, and so afraid that the crows would take him back to that horrible hole, that he didn't. He agreed with the council that Little Bird needed time to heal because he hadn't been very nice and understanding after all. But he arranged with a few, not-very-smart little birds to send secret messages to her. The letters, written on very thin leaves, were spotted with Cat's tears, and in every line he said how sorry he was.
The wise elders of the bird council saw that he was sorry, and still had hope that he could become a bird because he wanted to so badly. So they let him come back to Sunday meetings, but only if he would stay away from Little Bird.
But Little Bird wasn't fooled anymore. She knew about all the times he had dressed himself up in her feathers, and he had amassed quite a few. He wore them all the time now. She saw clearly that he had glued a piece of plastic to the top part of his nose to look like a beak, and that the thin little feathers sprouting next to his trimmed whiskers and along his body were stitched on. Little Bird was amazed that only a few other birds recognized that this cat sprouting grey and white feathers was not a bird.
Even though Cat had promised to stay away from Little Bird at Sunday meetings, and he knew crows were waiting to take him away if he misbehaved, he prowled around the hollow rooms in the meeting tree, looking for her. He always told other birds how sad he was and he only wanted another chance to show Little Bird he loved her. Sometimes he snuck into the back of a room where Little Bird was...and sat there...and stared at her with his slitty, green eyes.
After three years, the wise birdmen were impatient with Little Bird. They wondered why she wouldn't give him another chance and let him come home. They wanted to know why she couldn't see the changes in him. If he was going to kill you, he would have done it by now, they said.
The last time Little Bird appeared before council, she didn't look at all like the bird she used to be. She walked with a limp, one wing was crooked, she had bald patches where luxuriant feathers used to grow, and there were scars all over her little frame. She stood with head bowed, because she was so tired of trying to make them understand that Cat was only pretending to be a bird. She warned them that he was only playing cat-and-mouse games with them. But they didn't listen. After all, she's only a silly little bird who let him into her home in the first place, they said. She made her nest and now she must sit in it.
On this day, the in the dim lighting of the council chambers, with the sound of happy birds singing outside, eleven brilliant birds in vibrant cloaks of many colors looked at Little Bird with pity. But their pity for Cat was greater. They turned her away one last time and told her that she is actually the one who needs help. She must forgive Cat, they said, and to understand that cats can be birds after all, if they are given enough patience, time, care, and prayers to their God.
Little Bird left the council chambers for the last time.
There in the hallway, hiding in a corner, was Cat, covered with stitched-on feathers and a plastic beak. He pounced, with teeth bared and claws unsheathed.
Little Bird was no more. She flew away.
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