As I was typing yesterday's blog post, I watched a mourning dove at my bird feeder do the unthinkable. She ran, headlong, into my kitchen window, about three feet from where I was standing.
At first, from the bone-jarring noise the contact made, I thought I'd find her stunned on the ground. But, instead, she simply composed herself and flew to the roof line, making almost an "UUMMMPPPHHH" sound as she flew, as if to say "What the HECK was THAT?"
A few seconds later, she did the exact same thing, with as much gusto as the first time, but with much less noise after impact.
A minute after that, it happened a third time. Interestingly, though, it seems there was a lesson about speed in the first two occurrences, because this time she almost seemed to hesitate as she neared the window, even though she did make contact with it. The impact the third time didn't involve any bird noises.
The fourth time she hit with much less fury. And the fifth and sixth times, she simply flew toward the window, got within one wing beat of contact and furiously backed away.
When she finally landed at the bird feeder, amongst her dove friends, I noticed something odd about her: the bottom portion of her beak doesn't meet up properly with the top portion, making her look like she has a serious under bite. At the tip of the bottom portion of the beak there is a serious turn to the right, causing the top and bottom not to meet up at all. And, compared to the dark brown to black eye balls of the others, she has bright red eyes, circled with a light blue color. Very different from the rest, I wondered, and maybe a bit of a handicap?
Doves aren't exactly known for their brilliance. And, if I take this one as my example, I'd say their brains are rather like scrambled eggs. But, even the most mundane of creatures learns from its mistakes.
I see this dove in my own sin. The first time I get near a 'fresh' sin, I go for it. I don't hold anything back. And, often, it punches me back in the gut hard enough for me to get a message that "what I just did didn't feel very good."
The next time I commit that same sin, I tend to forget the lesson of the first. I'm less affected by the consequences because I've already been in this position and I've gotten a bit more comfortable with the impact.
And, I think that somewhere between feeling punched in the gut by my behavior and making a bit of peace with it, I either choose to stay foolish and continue with my sinning ways or take a divergent path and straighten it out.
For me (and dove) it seems the longer I commit the same sin, the less and less comfortable I get with my own improper actions. Maybe it is recognition that I'm doing something stupid. Maybe it is guilt for making the same foolhardy mistake over and over again. Maybe I start to realize that what seemed like a good idea is battering me, heart, soul and body.
But, eventually, after just the right amount of time has passed for me to get God's point, even though I may approach that sin again and again and get within inches of it, I back away. I don't allow myself to get close enough to have contact with it. I flirt with disaster, but come to my senses just as doom is approaching.
And, like my dove friend, eventually I back away entirely. I realize my mistake. And, I stop doing damage. And, if I am truly in tune with what God wants for me, I confess that sin, ask forgiveness, and get back on the right track.
The kids asked me in the car the other day if animals get sad when other animals die in front of them. I've seen enough stories to prove that there is some instinctual protection built into their responses. And, I've even seen my own animals in mourning over the loss of their companion. But, I don't know that they have enough brain power to really "get it" the way humans do.
But, I can tell you, if you step back and watch nature for a second, there are times that animals aren't that different from us. They are capable of showing affection, anger, and even kindness toward one another. And, clearly, they are capable of learning that something that hurts them isn't worth doing ad nauseum.
If only we humans could learn as quickly....
As I write this, my bird friend has discovered that she can sit on the ledge at the base of the window that was once her battering tool. She seems happy to take a bit of a rest there, waiting for her turn at the feeder.
She seems to be staring at me, through the glass she was just hitting, unafraid of what was hurting her just minutes before. It seems she has learned something. She has made peace with the very thing that was her nemesis. She has overcome the "sin". She has ingested the lesson and is content in sitting, instead of beating her head against a damaging force.
She is beautiful. She is from God. She is my muse for the moment.
And, if I'm lucky, she'll be back to teach me more lessons on another day.
Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.
--Luke 12: 6-7
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