Consider the birds of the air. A meditation on "Being present".

 “Consider the birds of the air”, says Jesus in Matthew 6. And in Matthew 10:29 “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care.”

This morning we found that one of our cockatiels, Holly, the hen bird, died during the night. We buried her respectfully and reverently, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection of the dead and raising to life eternal. Psalm 36: You, Lord, save both people and animals.

Her mate, Glimfeather, is bereft. He’s singing to her, looking for her. This is the second mate he’s lost in his sixteen years. Last time, depression brought on physical illness, before introducing Holly restored him to health. So I’ve moved a small table into the verandah next to the aviary, and I’m typing from there so that we can see each other, and I can talk to him. And he can sing to me.  Which illustrates a motif well known to chaplains, that of “being present”. Wouldn’t it be lovely if Glimmy spoke English (he sort of has a few phrases, but it hardly counts as speaking English, and he couldn’t express himself in English sentences) and/or if I spoke cockatielish. I could explain what has happened to Holly. But there’s always the risk that I overdo the explanation. Another dilemma well known to chaplains. Well-meaning folk say “You’ll get over it.” No, you won’t get over it. Too many of you know this from times of bitter personal grief. Like a bad ache, you might learn to live with the pain, even turn happy memories into occasions for laughter, but you won’t “get over it”. Or to a young mother who has just miscarried or delivered a stillborn child or one with limited life expectancy. “You’re young, you can have another.” But he won’t be, she won’t be, the irreplaceable child who is lost.

So perhaps Glimmy’s and my mutual incomprehension is just as well. I am forced to only be present with him. Not to launch into proof texts or trite attempts at faux comfort. I say “only”, but it’s what we’re called to be, just present, that’s all, wherever grief and disappointment has displaced joy. Jewish wisdom tackles this in the book of Job. Job has lost everything, wealth, health and family. His friends turn up in chapter two and start trying to explain why this has happened. They mean well. But eventually, they have to give up, their explanations don’t cut it, make it all worse, and they just sit down in the dirt with Job and cry with him. That’s all that they can do. Weep with those who weep. That’s all that we can do. Until, whichever side of Glory the situation is put right, when we rejoice with those who rejoice.