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Yesterday morning I was sitting at my dining room table having breakfast when I heard a, "Tweet. Tweet... tweet, tweet, tweet." I looked over at the window across from me and there was this little bird investigating the space created by a gap at one end of the screen. I think it may have been shopping for a rental. At least I sincerely hope so, because it thrilled me to bits two years ago when a small house wren set up her nest in that very spot.
Not wanting to disturb or alarm her, Tom and I watched cautiously as she spent the next few days creating the perfect home. It was really quite artistically done and feathered to perfection in its cave-like appearance. It would serve and shelter well for its need. After a week or so passed, the wren flew off one day, so we decided to take a peek inside. There, nestled in the soft leaves, were three tiny eggs.
So exciting!
I don't remember exactly how much time elapsed between spotting the eggs and their hatching, but one day as we were eating at the table, we heard some very faint little, "cheap, cheaps." Ahhh... the babies were here! What a good little mama this wren was. Countless times a day she flew off to get dinner for her ravenous brood. No sooner had she fed them all than it was time to do it again, as evidenced by the increasing strength and decibels of their cries.
I was most fortunate one day to watch the following scene unfold. If we have eyes to see... I mean to really observe things around us, God can teach us some incredible lessons. Such was mine that day. This particular morning when the mother wren set off to gather breakfast, a small, downy head poked out from the nest. I could see how they'd grown. Their pin feathers had been replaced, and though still not fully adult, they were becoming adventurous and eager to see what awaited beyond the confines of their screened abode.
That first little explorer hopped closer and closer to the opening. I started whispering, "Oh, no... No... No, no, no, no, nooo," but he wasn't listening. He hopped off the sill and fluttered down to the ground. Then in a flash, he pumped his small wings, and he was gone. Siblings two and three followed suit in quick succession, all out of the nest and away in one fell swoop.
I was still standing there at the window, watching, when the mama wren returned a moment later, dinner in her beak. She hopped to the nest, then to the opening and back to the nest again. She repeated this a couple of times, still hanging on tight to the food she had procured, perhaps fully expecting her chicks to return. They never did. After another minute or so, she herself flew off, and that's the last I saw of her.
I tell you truthfully, I never identified more with another of God's creatures in my whole life. I felt for this mother. I was heartbroken for her for the terribly sudden and uncerimonious exit of her offspring. Never mind the long goodbye, she didn't get a goodbye at all. There was nothing left but an empty nest and a few broken shells to mark their existence.
At this particular time in my life, it had been about six months since our last, our Sarah, had graduated college and gotten married. We were officially "empty-nesters," and this little incident had driven home just what that meant. I had written about it in a facebook post, marking the day when our "nest" officially became a "perch"... a place where our kids would come to visit and refresh, but never again reside. Thank goodness our children had not left us as abruptly as those chicks, but there was still a very tangible void, both in our home and in my heart.
When you become a parent you invest yourself in your children. You give to them your time, your energy, your faith, your counsel, your instruction, your wisdom. You spend your days helping them to develop integrity, to foster empathy, to encourage creativity, to instill character, and to establish a real relationship with their Lord and Savior. You wear so many different caps, you can't even keep track of them all. Sometimes you wear several at once. You try to balance discipline with discipling. Sometimes you do great. Sometimes you fail. You hit your knees so often you've got callouses. Through it all, you keep pushing along, you keep persevering, because it's your calling... it's your responsibility... your great privilege.
One cap every parent gets when they have children is that of "friend." This one is special, because it's one that has to wait its turn, to be held in reserve for just the right time. It can be pulled out now and again as the child grows, as there are moments when this hat fits the bill better than any other, but wearing that cap too soon and too often as a parent can be detrimental to the cause. This cap feels more like a reward, like the prize you get for finishing the race. It's a cap made more precious for having had to wait to wear it. There is no magic moment, no appointed time to place it on our heads. In fact, it's rather our kids who do that honor for us.
Spending the time, investing everything in us to arrive at that point... at the point where we are able to be less parent and more friend... is amazing. It's awesome. As wonderful as it is though, it's also a little sad, because gaining that cap means that one aspect, one season of our journey comes to an end. It can leave us feeling a bit like that mama wren, wondering what comes next.
What comes next, I've learned, is enjoying the perch. The lesson that God and that mother bird taught me that day, is that life goes on. When you have done your parenting job to the best of your ability, even though it may not have been perfect, it's time to sit back and watch your kids fly. Seasons come to an end, but there is always another on its heels. The job of parent, of nurturer may have come to a close in some aspects, but you will always be there to support, encourage, listen, and pray. That never changes no matter how old our kids get. The great thing is that now you have the blessing of friendship too.
The other thing I learned from that little wren, is that when the time comes for our kids to leave, they will go. Earth-shattering revelation... I know! In reality, they will determine it, and we will have little say in the matter. I have to admit that I learned this lesson only in retrospect, and boy, do I wish I had learned it sooner. In my defense, I've read LOTS of accounts of other mothers feeling and acting this same way. So there's that. Anyway, as the time for the launch approaches, we can begin feeling like we're not ready. It might manifest as our self-assuring concern that it's our KIDS who are not ready, but in our hearts I think we know that we are often the ones holding back.
Sometimes we backpedal so fast and furiously that the ties are strained. If we don't loosen our grip on those apron strings, they may fray or snap altogether in the struggle. I must admit, I have some frayed edges, but, thanks to my Heavenly Father, and to my forgiving children, our relationships are still intact and thriving today.
The point is, no matter how much we have loved being involved in the raising and training of our children, it is a specific season with a specific purpose, to send out competent, caring, courageous individuals into this world to be salt and light for Him. They can never reach their potential if we don't allow them the room to stretch their wings and give them the freedom and encouragement to fly.
I wouldn't say that all good things must come to an end, but rather, that all good things, especially those given to us by our loving Father, morph and transition into other just as wonderful good things.
I hope we will soon have another resident raising a new generation of fledglings on our window sill. I will watch her as before... feathering her nest, feeding her babies, rearing her young. I will watch her chicks take flight, and I will rejoice with her in a job well done.
As her nestlings go... so will she. She will soar now to new things, have new adventures,
and though my perch stands always at the ready with plenty of clean sheets, good food, sweet tea, and a welcoming hug...
so will I.
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