birds-nest

I held a delicate, tiny nest in my hand today. I found it covered in a pile of spring leaves that I was sweeping in the backyard. It was so carefully designed with strong slender twigs to give it structure on all sides. Cradled underneath was a perfect basket-shaped hammock interwoven and laced with threads and tucked with tiny bits of downy fluff. I marveled at the fragile object as I turned it over and examined it with my fingers and wondered what happened to the occupants. Had they left their temporary home to fly away, or had the strong wind tumbled it to the ground? Or worse, had they been preyed on by another bird or a cat? Ah, the reality of a living in a fallen world.

Life is like that nest: at times strong, other times fragile, but the reality of life in a fallen world is that everything is vulnerable. Today, I remember our sweet Christopher’s birthday, born at 5:20 p.m. on April 1, 1975. I was 19, and had been raised by wonderful, experienced nannies—diapered and fed and bathed on a close-to-perfect schedule. Now how to care for this, my priceless bundle? So, I worried about feedings, the first runny nose, his first day in the nursery at church, that first day of school. And we prayed him through the 106-degree fever that lasted long and landed him in the ICU in an oxygen tent with viral pneumonia.

He was beautiful, perfect, tiny, and mine. Mine to protect and train and shepherd. And somehow, by God’s grace, he grew up strong and handsome, artistic, smart, funny, sensitive and curious, so much like his dad. Mothering is such a mixture of emotions: highs and lows, ups and downs, joy and tears. With each passing year I was at times nudged, at other times driven, to my knees in prayer. I say the number-one requirement before planning a family is to have a heart that is fixed, FIXED on the Lord who loves our children more than we do.

That summer of 2008, Christopher left us suddenly, without a warning, without the luxury of a good-bye kiss. His death in a violent car crash is still too horrible and unbearable for me to think about in detail. But I do think around the edges of that harsh reality, and when I have exhausted my tears that must be poured out, I have trained my eyes look up. This precious son, at 33, was strong, fragile, and vulnerable.

Like that tiny nest, these bodies are but a temporary home in this fallen world, but one day, these fragile nests will be changed, transformed to a far, far better home with our Lord Jesus.

I can sing the words of this old gospel song with hope and joy and tear-filled eyes:

Some bright morning when this life is over
I’ll fly away
To that home on God’ celestial shore
I’ll fly away
When the shadows of this life have gone
I’ll fly away
Like a bird from these prison walls I’ll fly
I’ll fly away
Oh how glad and happy when we meet
I’ll fly away
No more cold iron shackles on my feet
I’ll fly away
Just a few more weary days and then
I’ll fly away
To a land where joys will never end
I’ll fly away
I’ll fly away oh glory
I’ll fly away in the morning
When I die hallelujah by and by
I’ll fly away
I’ll fly away

 Heavenly Father, cradle my beautiful boy, now more beautiful than I can imagine, in Your loving arms . . . until that day when I too will fly away.