My sassiest daughter was playing school with her big sister this morning before church. Apparently, they'd set up a whole imaginary classroom with imaginary students. All of sudden, the little one starts stomping around with her hands on her hips.
“I can't do imaginary anymore!” she yelled.
I laughed out loud. Watching her with her hands on her hips, saying in exasperation, “I can't do imaginary anymore,” gave me the same feeling as when I hear her singing that Sugarland song about not settling. There I am, driving down the road, minding my own thoughts, and this little girl will belt out:
I ain't settlin'
for just getting' by
I've had enough so-so
for the rest of my life. . .
It's the kind of sass I like in a girl. She doesn't want so-so or imaginary, and neither do I. We want to fully inhabit the lives God gives us. We are learning that ordinary is extraordinary when you figure out what you can learn from it. We aren't settlin' if we can help it. We aren't letting one moment go by without finding out what it means.
We are getting better at it. This morning, in the cool breeze of 9:00 AM, something caught my eye as we pulled out of the driveway.
Blue and wispy like the tip of some fairy's wing, leaves danced across the base of the oak tree by my house. I stared harder, confused about the blue leaves tumbling around on the lawn. My husband stopped the van, and I got out. There, like tiny crumbled scraps of blue construction paper, balls of feathers unfolded to show little beaks. Obviously abandoned, obviously fallen from a high nest, these bluebirds strained their heads and wings hopelessly. They seemed cold, sure to die, and starving. I looked up through the branches of the oak tree. High up, higher than the rooftop, the tangle of sticks and leaves sat.
The whole family gathered solemnly around the oak tree. Believing we were seeing dying birds, the girls shouted: “We need to call the pet store! We need to call animal rescue! Help!” We all ran inside, frantic as we tried to find the phone book. My husband, calm and sure, went to the internet to find out what to do.
And we prayed.
A moment later, my husband spread the good news: These weren't dying birds. They were fledgling birds. There's a big difference.
Fledgling is a great word. It describes a young bird (or person) who is new to the scene. This person has just left the nest and is almost ready to fly. They still need help, but as they flop around, looking hopeless, they are actually building strength to fly. To the inexperienced observer, a fledgling looks like a dying bird. The feathers look all rumpled and broken, and the body is limp. What I saw, when I looked at those bluebirds, was chaos and disaster and, worse, abandonment.
But it was actually a highly controlled, intentional situation.
Later, I sat in church, so thankful for the truth about my fledgling times. What I see as chaos, disaster, and abandonment (by God or others) is actually a highly controlled, intentional situation. God knows I need some time to strengthen my character and my resolve. He knows I need to flop around a bit first.
And I was thankful that my daughter who can't do imaginary didn't have to this morning. She could sit and look right out at the real world in her front yard. And this girl who won't settle for so-so learned that rescuing birds isn't about removing them from their situation or creating better circumstances. Sometimes it means keeping them right there in it because it's where they are supposed to be.
Living with flair means that I might reinterpret chaos, confusion, or even disaster as part of a highly controlled, intentional situation. God, like the mother bird, knows exactly what's going on. Later today, I saw that mother bird seeking out each fledgling with a worm in her beak. She found all six of them, no matter where they had tumbled, and nourished them fully. They'll fly by evening.
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