We were made to weep, as well as to laugh.
I cry less often than I once did. That bothers me sometimes. But just when I begin to wonder if my tear ducts have withered shut from underuse, a bird, with blithe abandon, takes aim for the sky reflected in our living room window.
For that I cried a few Sunday afternoons ago. For song and flight suddenly ended. For a palmful of feathers and splatters of scarlet blood on my hands.
I heard the muffled thump of the siskin's body and rushed outside. It lay on its side on the wooden deck, its tiny chest heaving. When I picked it up, one foot clawed the air. From its beak, like molten rubies, slid slow drops of crimson.
The creature sat upright in my palm for a heartbeat, then flopped over. I'm sorry, I said again and again. I'm so sorry. Sorry my window killed you. Sorry your song is done. Sorry you'll never fly again. Sorry sorry sorry.
Surprised, I noticed tears mingling with the blood on my hands. Heartbeats later, the little Kamikaze flier died.
I buried the bird on the backside of the rock garden. Then, mid-lawn, I sat in the swing-seat beside the Preacher. Pulled his Christmas gift to me out of my pocket.
I don't play harmonica well, but I enjoy the trying. The quest to find a single pure note. To make it soar, to bend it. To make that four inches of chrome sing like a bird on the wing. (If anyone reading this can do that and gives lessons, let me know.)
In honour of and apology to the siskin - perhaps to all living things and spirits I have wounded or rendered flightless, even for a moment - I played every song, old, sappy or good, that came to mind. Every hymn or ditty that mentioned birds or flight. I'll Fly Away. His Eye is On the Sparrow. Snow White Dove. Great Speckled Bird. How Great Thou Art. Said the Robin to the Sparrow. And more.
Note by note, those songs reminded me of Jesus' words. "Not a sparrow falls without your Father's knowledge Consider the birds; they don't plant or reap or store away in barns, yet your Heavenly Father cares for them. Are you not worth much more than they?" Cadence by cadence, they reminded me that God sees the fallen weak; that he, too, weeps over the hardness that batters a beautiful life.
Sin. Unbelief. Injustice. Apathy. Poverty. Rebellion. Life - no matter how small - that ends too soon; these are God's weeping grounds.
Don't cry forever, but don't forget to cry. Cry to stay tender. Bawl over the things that make God weep. From those tears, ours and his, comes a song. Sing it slow. Sing it low. Bend it like a bird.
Then, in the name of Christ, get up and do something to stop someone else's tears.
