Have you ever tried to wrestle the wind? I did this morning, and believe me it wasn’t a pretty sight. Imagine hair flying in all directions, sloppy, everyday ‘I hate Monday’ clothes soaked and dripping. The irony in this is up until the last few months Atlanta has been suffering with a drought. Days and Days of no clouds in the sky, the grass so dry it turned brittle under our feet, flowers blooming in far less than their full glory.
But really, how long can a drought last? How long can one waste away in a suburban desert? Relief came in fits and starts, and finally we have a green spring. This leads me to why I wrestled with the wind.
We are in a pattern of strong rains and storms now. Is life always feast or famine? Anyway, heavy rains and turbulent winds bore down on us this morning, our third bout in seven days. I was thankful Hubby could drop Daughter at school. I had no intentions of stepping out of my door.
Around nine the wind broke a small tree near the front of the house. I quietly reminded myself that Hubby had not cleared the bank of the small trees like he promised. I mean we even have a chainsaw. I swore that I would teach myself how to start the intimidating piece of machinery if the weather ever got better.
The wind gusted and there in the remains of the tree, wrapped in what looked to be a hundred different kinds of vines–I’m sure one had to be poison ivy–was a nest with three blue robin’s eggs inside.
I huffed to the closet and put on my boots and rain slicker. I fought to push up my umbrella, a futile action. Then I tossed it into the yard, inside out and trudged over to the bank.
A month ago a friend I know from church received the most wonderful news. After seven years on the transplant list, she got the call. There was a liver. She rushed to the hospital and no more than twelve hours later, her new organ was functioning. Finally the waiting was over. She had been delivered into a new circumstance with so much promise, where there had been none. All went well for a few days. Then infection set in by way of a leaking bile duc. This began a series of rotations between a regular room and ICU. Her family hang on each change. Each day is faced as it comes. My friend fights her best fight and still thanks those who pray for her.
The nest was strudy enough, built by a mother for her children. I caught the vines whipping in the wind and pulled back in pain. I grabbed thorns. The eggs were still in the nest. I knotted the vines onto another little tree, creating a swinging bridge of sorts. This was the best this bumbling human could do. I have always been told that if a human touches a nest, the mother bird will not go near it again. Just as I started back to the house a huge gust of wind came through and the nest whipped through the air. I searched for the delicate blue eggs but could not find them. I searched in the crazy wind and rain. I searched because I didn’t think I had a choice.
Last week I heard my friend’s voice for the first time since her operation. I was overcome with emotion, the kind that brings you to your knees. What would I do in her place? Would I hang in there? I am inspired by her efforts, even though I know at times she must want to give up, to stop trying. Please don’t. When I heard her voice, I wanted to change her situation. I was helpless to do this. I was powerless to guide her out of her difficulties.
As I finish writing this piece. The mother robin came to preach near my window. I know she is searching for her eggs. She looks straight at me, as if to say: Did you see what happened? I will search one more time. The rain has stopped. The wind is calmer. Maybe, who knows; stranger things have happened; just maybe I’ll find those precious treasures in the pine straw.
I’m not sure what I was trying to say, but whatever the message, it is for my friend and struggle.