Worry

I never knew I was such a worrier. I thought I was quite composed and above common worrying. Until recently.

I got home from Alabama two weeks ago. Pouring myself a cup of coffee, I noticed a fluttering in the plum tree outside the kitchen window. I saw a bird busily stuffing a piece of plastic bag into a nest she was forming. I thought: "Silly bird! That will trap the rain and drown your babies!" I worried about that.

Over the next few days the robin constructed a beautiful piece of architecture. But I fretted over the fact that the branch on which she built her nest stretches over the concrete patio. I worried that one of her babies would fall out and be dashed on the hard surface. Tim suggested I drag that bale of hay and place it under the nest until the babies fledged and flew away.

The next morning I was disappointed to not see the mother bird at all. I've kept watch for several days now and she is indeed gone. I think about her every time I look out the window and see the nest: what a good mother she was to build such a fine nest; she wouldn't have abandoned it unless something happened to her. I'm saddened by the thoughts. And I worry.

The Bible says that God knows when a sparrow falls, so I know he knows about my mother robin. And he knows about the tiny dead, naked baby bird I saw next to the sidewalk on my walk to the studio this morning. In church this past Sunday, Pastor pointed out that Jesus' miracles were mostly demonstrations to remind people that this is not the way the earth is supposed to be: broken, hurting, deadly. And that He cares for this earth and is returning to it one day to put things right. I need to not worry about the little birds but care for them as I care for all of the broken things in my life.