Bye Bye Birdie
The scene opens on me in my car, late one evening last week. I am driving down a quiet residential street on my way home. I notice what looks like a bit of trash in the road, so I adjust my wheel slightly, so as to drive over it unharmed—whatever it is. A moment before I drive over it, I realize it is not trash, but in fact a bird sitting there. Apparently the bird notices that I am not a bit of trash either, but in fact a very large car that is about to drive over it, and attempts to get out of the way. Bad idea. In the split second it takes for me to see the bird and for it to disappear under my car, the silly bird tries to fly away. Fwap! Is all I hear and for a millisecond, my new friend is once again visible above my headlight before she falls to the ground. We make eye contact—and then she is gone.

Let's just say that I don't "handle" the whole "hitting small animals on the road" thing very well. Suddenly this bird has a life and feelings and a family who are sitting around the fire back home waiting, in vain, for their mom to fly in the door any second. I am yelling into my hand, although I'm not sure why since no one can hear me. Tears are welling in my eyes, as I imagine her broken body lying on the ground, struggling for breath. I am praying out loud that the Lord will please just take the bird quickly and that she won't suffer. She will soon be flying around heaven with Grandma and Grandpa Birdie. After about a minute of such verbal grief, I get myself under control enough that I am neither yelling nor praying out loud. I resign myself to listen to the melancholy, yet soothing, music coming out of my stereo which seems to match my mood perfectly. At this very moment of resignation, I hear the words of the song that's playing, as if God Himself was responding to my prayers, "But then this bird just flew away. She was never meant to stay. To keep her caged would just delay the spring" (Travis, "The Cage").

Fly away Birdie, fly away.