More random thoughts from my journey after the death of my wife, Renee.

 As I have mentioned in the past, the neighborhood in which we live is designated as a “Wildlife Sanctuary”.  The humans who live here are not supposed to do anything to harm any of the animals that make their homes here.  I suppose that does not include the animals that we consider pests.  If they’re included as protected species, then we’re all in trouble.  How do you not swat a mosquito, or a fly, or a termite flying around your reading lamp?  Seemingly, there is a hierarchy in the Animal Kingdom.  Some animals “deserve” protection; some don’t.  A delicate balance is maintained between what we as humans will put up with and what we will not, even in a “Wildlife Sanctuary”.   

 A wide variety of birds make their homes here, and I think all of them are categorized as being protected from humans.  A good law, don’t you think?  Yet, I was sorely tempted to violate that law recently when I witnessed a battle between a mocking bird and a crow taking place a couple of houses down.  It was clear that the crow was intent on raiding the nest of the mocking bird in order to eat the new-born chicks.  The adult mocking bird was fighting valiantly against an enemy that was at least twice its size – a battle the mocking bird was not going to win without help.  I was tempted to provide that help with a firearm.  But that was going to violate more laws than just the rules of the Wildlife Sanctuary.  And so, like the photographers who film amazing wildlife documentaries, I could not take sides and help.  All I could do was observe. 

 And as I observed the sights and sounds of a real life-and-death struggle taking place just a few feet away, I heard something else – the cooing of a dove in a tree in my own yard.  A dove, the universal symbol of peace, was singing of peace while war literally raged just outside her door.  She was “singing ‘Peace, peace’, when there was no peace”. [Jeremiah 6:14]

 My house looks nice from the street.  Peaceful.  The yard is mowed.  A flag flutters bravely in the wind.  Who would know how empty it feels inside?  Who could know?

 I saw an owl in broad daylight in my backyard a few weeks ago.  Later, I saw him/her in their nest in the hollow of a tree in my neighbor’s backyard, and I saw a young owl there too.  And then, I was awakened in the night by what sounded like a whole choir of owls singing [hooting, actually] loudly in my backyard.  It was strange, and haunting, and beautiful.  In my mind, I pictured this to be something like a graduation ceremony – perhaps the young owl was returning home after its first successful hunt, and all the relatives and friends were gathered to cheer and encourage the young one, who was now ready to fly off and live on his/her own.

 Other than basically turning these wild animals into people [which isn’t weird, right?], so what?

 I don’t know.  But I do know that owls are nocturnal animals, rarely seen in the daylight.  I had never seen one in the wild before.  Some Native Americans, and others, attach spiritual meaning to owls, and spiritual significance to seeing one in daylight, and to hearing them outside your window at night.

 Are they right?  I don’t know.  But, I am old enough to remember Michael Martin Murphey’s 1975 song “Wildfire”, and lucky enough to have seen him perform it live and up close my senior year at ACU [I learned my lesson after the fiasco of missing The Carpenters in concert – see the “Rainy Days and Mondays” blog article from a couple of weeks ago!].  In this song, the singer recalls the legend of a Native American lady and her horse, Wildfire, forever lost and wandering the prairie; and now, having lost his crop to an early snow, he sings:

                                                                         Been a hoot owl howling by my window now

                                                                            ‘bout six nights in a row      

                                                                            She’s coming for me I know

                                                                            And on Wildfire we’re both gonna go

                                                                            We’ll be riding Wildfire…

OK, the owls didn’t howl by my window for six nights in a row.  But I was counting.   And from the moment I heard their choir outside my window, I was singing this song in my mind, and wondering what it all meant, or if it meant anything.  To quote from another song [“Crazy, written by CeeLo Green in 2006] - “Does that make me crazy?  Possibly.”

 Tears come at the oddest moments.  Last night, as I was listening to children’s songs with my son, these lyrics from “Puff The Magic Dragon” suddenly seemed descriptive of my new world: “Without his lifelong friend, Puff could not be brave, so Puff that mighty dragon sadly slipped into his cave.”  My son thought it was funny that Daddy couldn’t sing along anymore.  

 The days are difficult without her; the nights are worse.  Without her reassuring, calming, competent presence, nervousness, confusion, and fear have become my constant companions. 

 And it strikes me that there are people going through great loss like this who do not have what I have - the hope, the confident expectation of seeing her again.  How dark are their days?  How black are their nights? 

 How can we keep our hope a secret from them?     

Ambrose Ramsey | Pastor and Shepherd