updated and rewritten, April 18, 2008Tonight I am reminded of the parable of the prodigal son in the Bible.
Our parrot, Buster, vanished during a storm.
While I attended to my husband in the hospital in Ballarat awaiting news about a persnickety kidney stone that took up residence just short of his bladder, a huge storm hit the entire southern portion of this continent. That would be the equivalent of a storm blanketing the Washington, Oregon and California coasts all at once.
I watched in amazement from my perch on the fourth floor of the hospital as dust from drought-starved earth from another state north billowed into Victoria layer upon layer pushed along by winds of up to 90 miles per hour, and accompanied by sheets of rain which turned the deluge into muddy sludge that coated cars and roofs and windows and walls, and people who were unlucky enough to find themselves on the street. Patients and nurses brought camera phones to the large north windows to watch the show and document it. Dust permeated the air so thickly that street lights came on at 3 p.m. Branches and leaves were stripped off of trees and strewn across roads. Some drought-starved trees buckled in the onslaught and left trunks in roads. Vehicles were driven with both white-knuckled hands firmly on the steering wheel. At least mine was.
During the zenith of this weather, I wandered out to feed more coins into the hungry two-hour limit parking meter and was nearly blown off my feet by gusts of wind. My pants whipped around my legs like leggings, my long jacket rode up my back, and my hair whipped around my head in every direction.
Disheveled, I made it back to Steve's bedside and commented off-handedly, "I'm a little worried that Buster's cage on the verandah might blow over." He answered with confidence, because he built the sturdy, heavy thing, "Babe, it'll be okay." I promptly forgot about it.
About dinnertime Steve urged me to go home to pick up a Scrabble game to while away the later hours back at the hospital until lights out, and to make a few phone calls to America. At home I dialed my closest friend's number and glanced out the office window. To my horror I saw Buster's cage on its side and everything within it a tangled mess. I prayed I wouldn't find a dead bird and hoped he'd still be around, even if stunned. I dropped the phone and ran outside. He was gone.
Memories like an old 8mm film coursed through my mind...Greeting him after sunrise with pets and scratches, playing "drop and catch the stick," challenging him with new toys during the day when I had time to spare. I was Buster's favorite toy. He greeted me with gentle chirps and a head lowered for scratches. He especially liked his beak rubbed. He closed his eyes in pleasure while gently pushing his head into the palm of my hand. He ate seeds out of my palm. He stepped on my wrist, walked sideways up my arm then perched on my shoulder to look around, groomed my hair like birds groom other birds' feathers and nibbled the arm of my eyeglasses. He "talked" to me constantly when I was with him, and called for me with loud, piercing chirps if I was busy in the house. He often settled on my arm in front of my chest with his head under my chin while I stroked his soft feathers at sunset before he settled in for the night.
After I discovered the cage wreckage I raced around the verandah calling, "Buster! Buster! Pretty bird! Where's my boy, my pretty bird?" Above the howling wind, I heard distant chirps and cheeps in response to my voice. I couldn't find him. My neighbor's pasture is fenced high with barbed wire and I couldn't climb over. My neighbor Fiona and I searched the tree where I thought I heard him, but he wasn't in it. His chirps got less and less frequent from a grove of thick Australian pine trees on the far side of her paddock. The wind and rain increased and the temperature dropped.
Fiona went back inside her warm house with her dog and two cats. I stationed myself in our yard and on the verandah with binoculars.The fire in my woodstove died. I watched and waited and called until dark. I scattered Buster's favorite sunflower seeds on the lawn, hoping he'd remember where he got food, and forage at sunset with other birds. He didn't. He just chirped from some distant tree out of my sight and reach.
Tonight is cold, windy and rainy. I wonder how he is, unsheltered with autumn rain drenching his feathers and cold winds making him shiver. I wonder if he misses me and the safety and shelter of his cage.
So I find myself thinking of the prodigal son. The father knew he was out there, just out of reach. In his heart he must have known the son would come back to where he knew he could find food and shelter and love and warmth. I know, because scripture says the father waited and watched. He saw his son coming from a distance. That tells me the father memorized his son's walk, his essence. The son didn't disappoint. He came back home. And his father was waiting. His faith was rewarded.
Tomorrow I will search again. And I will watch and wait. I hope my faith will be rewarded.
I know this pondering may seem silly, all about a bird. But this isn't really just about my lost bird.
The parable within a parable is this: How much more than me hoping my lost bird will return is God the Father with us...His children who wander away? We are sometimes frightened and disrupted by the storms of life...our cages are upturned and away we go. But He is patient. He is also heartbroken. He has placed in us a desire for His care, His warmth, His love, His provision, the shelter of His arms. When His child is missing, He sorrows, even if there has been standoffishness from us and our stance has been "don't come near or I will bite." A true Father, and the model for all of us, is the One who searches, calls us, listens for our voice, and waits for us to return.
And I think that there is something in every person that calls out to be found by the Father. He calls, we chirp in response, and perhaps hope He finds us rather than having to take the scary step of flying home on wings that don't work right. But He is patient and loving and kind...and King.
I live in hope...and in gratitude.
addendumOur faith, hope, and submission to God's will was rewarded three days later.
A hungry and thirsty Buster arrived on our lawn, foraging among the sunflower seeds laid out for him
. He chirped and cheeped and wandered by himself, a castoff from the other galahs who'd fed earlier. Armed with pillowcases, Steve and I took opposite ends of the lawn and I approached Buster stealthily, herding him toward my husband who hid behind the rain tank. Steve alarmed him, Buster waddled back toward me squawking and wings flapping, and I captured him with a pillowcase thrown over his head.
We got him in the house and into his indoor cage. He looked a little disheveled and bewildered, but after a few minutes, was his old Buster-self, wanting scratches and rubs and sitting on my hand. He ate a lot of seeds and drank a lot of water, then settled onto his perch for a long near-winter's nap.
The outdoor cage is bolted to the verandah now to withstand any storm. But Buster comes inside at night and during inclement weather. He has changed. So have we. He is more adventuresome and affectionate, and actually flew onto Steve's shoulder from the open indoor cage while Steve made breakfast the other day, then nibbled his ears and groomed his hair. Buster explores the house with confidence and is put in his outdoor cage during the day. We are more careful to make sure he is safe in all ways.
I think that Buster found that life on the outside doesn't hold that much attraction. He was alone, shunned by other birds because he's different (a broken wing, somewhat domesticated), nights were spent in a tree in the cold, and food and water weren't so easy to come by. Parrots need attention, companionship, and a constant source of food. All of which Buster has, and all of which he didn't in the outside world.
People, more specifically, God's children, aren't that much different. We stray, find out that life outside of God's will isn't so fabulous after all. Perhaps we find that people not on His narrow path are somewhat shallow and undependable. Sometimes we limp home to find that all that we need is waiting for us in our Father's house.
A returned and happy Buster...
