The Fern Birds

While our front porch was under construction, two wrens claimed the newly-built ledge under the roof and wasted no time crafting a nest for their eggs. When I first noticed it, I intended to brush it away before the owners made a giant mess on the new porch. But as I drew near, the mother bird looked up from her perch in alarm, and I stopped short. As she frantically scrambled away, I saw that her home was a beautiful conglomeration of evergreen leaves, twigs, and pine straw – like a bird art piece. How could I destroy such a masterpiece?

Over the next few days, I found myself constantly distracted by the cheerful pair as I watched them from my desk window. The male bird would stand on the handrail below the nest, a clump of fresh fluff hanging from his beak, waiting to fly it up to his bride. The mother arranged and re-arranged every offering, shaping it into a perfect home.

As I watched them, I imagined what would happen next: the nest would fill with eggs, and the mama bird would spend most of her time tending to them while the male bird brought extra twigs to reinforce their home. Then, one day, I anticipated hearing a loud commotion, only to look out and see that the baby birds had hatched. This would signal the beginning of a feeding frenzy – an endless loop of parents searching for food to feed their hungry birdlets. And it wouldn’t be long until the hatchlings were perched on the edge of the nest, ready to try their wings and launch out on their own. I couldn’t wait to watch all this excitement from my office window.

But that’s not what happened. What happened is that a few days after the birds began their work, I walked out the front door and almost stepped on something. Looking down, I realized it was their nest, blown from its perch by a storm the night before. I felt slightly stunned, seeing their tattered home lying on the landing. Tears sprang unexpectedly to my eyes. I was sad for the earnest little creatures who had worked hard to build a soft place for their babies to enter the world. I also felt disappointed that I couldn’t watch their lives unfold.

But in that pile of moss and sticks, so intricately woven together into a perfect circle just the day before, now in shambles on the concrete, I also saw my future. My youngest had just graduated high school; another was moving across the country, and the two oldest had their own homes. For most of my adult life, the house had been a place of constant activity. Soon, it would be still, quiet, and empty, like the remains at my feet. The winds of change were blowing through my nest, and I felt vulnerable. After twenty-five years of noise and chaos, the silence would be loud.

Standing on my porch that day, caught off guard by the destruction of the nest, the impermanence of life with all its uncertainty suddenly made me feel raw. Even though I was excited for my kids and their next steps, I was also worried about missing the bursting-at-the-seams fullness and the sense of daily purpose. I cringed every time someone used the phrase “the empty nest.” And it wasn’t just the thought of missing the day-to-day journey of walking life together; it was the not knowing for sure what would come next for me.

Ironically, I felt the same way right before my first son was born. My life was about to change drastically, from having a career and time alone with my husband and friends to being a stay-at-home mom with a baby who didn’t sleep and precious little time for anything else. I hadn’t even gained my footing from those significant waves of change before another hit me: we moved four states away with our newborn. Whether facing retirement, a new job, a big move, a family addition, a loss, or an empty nest, life changes can cause trepidation, even good ones.

The sad remnants on my front stoop made me feel the latest impending change more deeply. I felt sorry for the birds in the loss of their home, yet I also felt sorry for myself in the emptying of mine. But at that moment, I didn’t have much time to dwell on it because my house wasn’t empty yet, and the occupants were hungry. I couldn’t keep moping about the future because the grocery store was calling.

While I was at the market, I bought a fern. Hanging it on a hook outside the front door, I hoped the wrens would return and re-build inside its leaves, somewhere less vulnerable to the winds that would undoubtedly strike again. Because surviving the challenges and changes of living on earth requires building on something trustworthy so that, though we may be knocked down when the storms hit, we won’t be destroyed. At least not in our souls.

When I was a kid, my dad let me climb up a ladder with him onto the flat roof of our porch. I saw our yard from a whole new perspective. But when it was time to step off the roof and onto the first rung of the ladder underneath me, I was terrified. In making that transition, there is a moment when it feels like nothing is beneath you. You must feel your way and trust that your foot will find the top rung and the ladder will hold. In the same way, hard times and new seasons require trust that God will be there in the transition. Looking back on my life, I see that every time I have trusted God in challenging and new places, He has helped me find my footing. 

Maybe true resilience is trusting in Him enough that I don’t even have to feel trepidation about the next steps – I can move into whatever is next with anticipation and joy. But boy, I have loved the view from where I am now - an incredible rooftop experience. I guess it’s only natural to feel loss when such a good season ends.

The birds certainly didn’t waste much time focusing on what they lost. A few days after their first home landed unceremoniously on my stoop, I nearly jumped out of my skin while watering the fern when one of the birds darted from it, almost hitting me in the face. 

Undeterred by the loss of their first dwelling, the birds were busy building in a more secure location. They undoubtedly experienced distress when their first home was ruined, but rather than giving up and being crushed by their suffering and disappointment, they got on with it. With singing, no less. Their resilience inspired me.

The final days of this season are slipping through my fingers like sand. When the last child leaves, and I survey the remains of my home: the empty beds and the left-behind childhood remnants, I will be still and listen to the silence. Then I will probably cry. Even while the tears still flow, I will reflect gratefully on the incredible memories held in this nest. And then, I will start a load of laundry, clean up the debris, and do the next thing God puts before me to do. Because He gives me the power to stand, be grateful, and even experience joy despite all circumstances. The resilience God gives isn’t just a strength that endures; it’s a strength that lightens the load of the soul. The full nest has been a source of joy – but it’s not THE ultimate source of joy.

I love the way God used those birds to remind me not to get so lost in my sentimental journey that I forget to trust Him with my future. If he cares about the birds, how much more does He care about His people? Through two tiny wrens, God gave me the gift of encouragement. He let me know, once again, that I don’t have to worry about what comes next: where I will live, where my kids will live, what I will do. As I step down onto the next ladder rung, He only asks one thing of me, which is to keep moving with assurance, trusting Him to already be ahead of me.

As I drive away from my son’s dorm, I will feel sadness and loss. Then I’ll remember the fern birds and look hopefully down the road, wondering where I’ll land next.