The Little Bird

Today was a sad day at our small home in Vermont. Charlie found a dead baby bird in the grass underneath a lilac bush. She came running into the house, tears flowing down her cheeks, asking me to make it come alive again. She had such confidence that I would be able to make it okay. I took the little bird out of my daughter's tiny hands and put it in my own. I looked at the little body and I too felt sorrow for the little bird who would never fly.

I went in the kitchen, emptied a match box (putting the matches in an empty jar) and placed the tiny bird in the box. Then I went outside with Charlie and we sat on the deck to discuss her sorrow.

I tried to explain that the little bird probably was born too late this spring and that is why he did not survive. Maybe he fell out of the nest and the long fall broke his tiny neck.

Charlie was convinced that the mother and father birds were distraught. They were sad over the lose of their son. I asked her how she knew it was a boy and she told me her heart had told her. She said that the little bird's name was Woody and would I please write his name on the box.

I agreed and wrote on the box in capital letters "WOODY".

Charlie held the little box and asked me if she could bury the bird so that it would go to Heaven.

Again I agreed knowing she was trying to cope with death her own special way. So Charlie proceeded to grab my gardening shovel and dug a deep hole for the little bird underneath the lilac bush I assume where the little bird had fallen. She asked me to come out with her and I did.

She had picked a lilac flower from the tree and taken a few of the little buds and placed them inside the box with the little bird. Then she placed the match box in the ground. With tears in her eyes she said a little prayer for the bird. She then looked at me, her face was dirty from the dirt with little trails of tears down her cheeks. She looked so sweet and innocent.

She put her tiny hand on top of mine and asked me to say a few words for the bird. I smiled at my little girl and thought of what I could say.

"Lord, bless this little bird that will never know how it feels to fly," I said.

"Mommy, don't you see, this little bird will fly. He will fly on his way to Heaven and forever fly up there," she told me forcing a smile on her dirt-smudged face.

My eyes soon matched hers with tears. My little girl was right. Like so many times, she was the teacher and I was the student in the game of life.