I walked out into the flawless beauty of a spring morning in England. Down the lanes into the dark-earthed fields, beside the fresh green of new-leaved trees, past yellow flowers shining like stars in the thorn hedges. I breathed in the perfection of all I saw, wanting to say ‘thank you’ again and again. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a quick movement among the grass. I went over to the roadside and looked. A beautiful bird peeked out at me from under a clump of weeds: bright yellow head and chest that made think of canaries, chestnut-brown back, tail trimmed neatly in white. He looked so bright and smart that I smiled. Then I noticed one of his wings drooping awkwardly—it didn’t look broken, only sprained. He started calling frantically, frightened of me, this monster, and tried to get away.

I put out my hand to pick him up, speaking softly. But he would have none of it. Struggling desperately he ran into the long grass and tried to hide. He didn’t want any help, he only wanted to get away. So I tried again. And again. Every time he’d let me get just so close before running away as fast as fast as he could. I began to get a little frustrated, and wondered whether he was playing some game with me. After all, I was only trying to help—I wasn’t doing this for my own benefit.

So I told him straight: “Look, I’m only thinking of you. Just let me pick you up and see what’s wrong. I might be able to help.” No use!

I cajoled. I pleaded. I commanded. But every time I came close he was off, scurrying among the grass. At last he ran out of hiding places. He emerged from cover at the edge of a water-filled ditch. “OK,” I said, “That’s enough running. Now just let me pick you up gently. I won’t hurt you.” But no. He launched himself into the air, and fluttered painfully across to the other side. He only just made it, trailing his legs in the water as he landed. He refused to trust; he only wanted to get away from me. All the aid I could have given him he totally rejected.

Now he may have good reasons. Perhaps he couldn’t see that I intended good. He wasn’t sure what I was doing. He didn’t understand exactly what was going on. He wanted to be “free.” But whatever the case, he lost out. For a bird with a sprained wing can’t go very far. By putting himself beyond my reach he showed he didn’t trust my help and doomed himself to die.

And I felt in a very small way what a caring God must feel when those he loves fly away from him forever.

© Jonathan Gallagher