[The LORD] makes springs pour water into the ravines; it flows between the mountains. They give water to all the beasts of the field; the wild donkeys quench their thirst. The birds of the air nest by the waters; they sing among the branches. He waters the mountains from his upper chambers; the earth is satisfied by the fruit of his work. . . . How many are your works, O LORD! In wisdom you made them all; the earth is full of your creatures. (Psalm 104:10-13, 24).

A hundred years ago, mass media communication was in its infancy.  So most folks here in Michigan would have had little knowledge, if any, of a disaster such as the Deepwater Horizon explosion and subsequent devastation of the Gulf region. Life for them would be going on as normal, their tending to day-to-day chores and attending to nature outside their own backdoors.  Now, because of the constant and oppressive flow of bad news from the world, we often need to ignore for a time its crises, take out the lawn chairs, and sit down to absorb the joys of creation outside our backdoors.  One who did that well was inspirational writer, poet, and bird watcher Margaret Clarkson (1915-2008), writer of the beloved missionary hymn “So Send I You” put to music by the late John W. Peterson.  Take a break with me, sit down in that mental easy chair, and let Margaret help rest your mind and soul:

Sometimes I like to take my boat and wander off to parts of the river where variations in habitat make it possible to see or hear birds not commonly found along my own stretch of shore.  Early one June morning I glided into a shallow backwater surrounded by deep forest.  As always, I could hear more than I could see; I was soon aware of the presence of wild things not to be found in my own light bush and rock-strewn, swiftly flowing waters.

With a startled squawk a great blue heron rose on silent wing, disappeared over the treetops, flying with long, slow gracefully measured beat, head drawn back on his breast, long legs trailing.  The nasal “Yank! Yank! of a red-breasted nuthatch sounded urgently from afar; the hollow wooden clucking of a black-billed cuckoo rattled eerily from some alders by the water.

High overhead a warbling vireo burst into song, his lovely, liquid phrases incredibly beautiful.  Hidden in the forest floor, an artless wood thrush poured out his fluted melody, his pure clear, clear notes mounting into the air like ever-increasing arcs of pure gold.  The bold, bright whistle of an oriole rang out to his nesting mate as he rejoiced again and again in the wonder of new life.  From far away came the plaintive serene sweetness of the song of a white-throated sparrow.  In a clearing on the edge of the wood a purple finch sang in an ecstasy of abandon, as if all known joys were his and must be expressed in his song.  And high in the branches overhead the shy, sweet piping of a reflective chickadee mingled with the soft rhythmic tapping of a wood pecker.

I listened for an hour, then started home.  Why are the finest singers always somewhere else? I mused as I passed an open stretch alive with the music of indigo buntings and goldfinches.  Why did my rocky acre seem to have so little of the glory that had refreshed and delighted me here?

As I turned into my own little cove and moored the skiff, suddenly a song sparrow at my side released a rivulet of sparkling crystal song on the morning air.  Again and again he sang, as if his little heart would burst: “Sweet, sweet, sweet, oh sweet, sweet!” he caroled.  “Sweet, sweet, sweet!”  What could have been more beautiful?

My heart was filled with shame.  Here he lived, at my very door, singing his vibrant, heartwarming song from dawn to dusk.  A tiny brown creature, so drab as to be almost invisible among the twigs and grasses where he makes his home, he lives modestly and happily in almost any terrain, ceaselessly ministering grace to all who have ears to hear.

Every habitat must by its very nature exclude many of birdland’s most gifted choristers.  We must travel about from spot to spot if would hear their magnificent music or hope to view their vivid, flashing wings.  But the homely song sparrow with his tiny, throbbing throat spreads beauty and joy, courage and hope almost everywhere.

We may not all have the opportunity to thrill daily to the songs of nature’s most exotic singers, but God has left few of us without His song sparrows.  May we become aware of them and learn to listen to their message with gratitude and thanksgiving!

[Margaret's story and photos at Wheaton College]
[Look up and listen to all the birds Margaret refers to at the online Cornell Bird Guide]

Thanks for this important message, Margaret!  Now I’m going to go out and listen to the cheery voices of the house wrens that are raising a brood in one of my birdhouse gourds and watch the raucous robins battling over the few berries our juneberry tree has produced this year.

Seek the Lord while He may be found, call upon Him while He is near; let the wicked forsake their way, and the unrighteous their thoughts; let them return to the Lord, that He may have mercy on them, and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon. For My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways My ways, says the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways and My thoughts than your thoughts (Isaiah 55:6-11).

Last week I had a great time in Palm Desert CA with my brother and sister-in-law, Jim and Bev.  Got to spend an entire day at the wonderful Living Desert there.  I have a camera that takes both stills and video, and when I was told where a hummingbird nest was, I found myself spending a half hour or so shooting in both formats.  When we have the capacity to put up video here, I’ll download some fun clips.

Our family lived in Southern California several years ago, and last week’s encounter with a nesting hummingbird reminded me of the enjoyment we found in feeding the beautiful little creatures. We’d typically draw six different species of hummingbirds to our feeders: Anna’s, Allen’s, Costa’s, Rufous, Calliope, and Black-chinned.  And they were royal entertainment.

In order to be generous, we hung two feeders on the opposite sides of a long patio overhang.  That’s when we discovered the ungenerous nature of these delicate creatures: they don’t like to share if they can help it.  I guess it’s in the genes that when hummers discover a source of food, they stake their claim to it and then spend hours every day chasing away other birds—even, or maybe especially, “birds of a feather.”  Some tried to claim both feeders and raced back and forth each chasing off the “owner” of the other.  We would spend much leisure time watching these wars—often commenting that they would not have to take in so much nectar if they learned to live at peace with each other. [See a YouTube clip of such a fight here]

I was surprised one day when I was taking down a feeder to refill it.  One of the brazen little birds came and hovered up to within six inches of my nose, seeming to say “take your hands off my food, buster!”  I could have easily snuffed out its haughty little life but instead laughed at its audacity.

Then I realized how much this was like people getting into the face of God, angry at being deprived of that they consider theirs—not seeming to have a clue that without God they would have nothing.  That the bird didn’t understand that its temporary loss would ultimately be its gain is also like people and God.  Isn’t it a wonder also that God tolerates our pride and audacity?

Our heavenly Father often takes things away from us in order to give us more—or perhaps end a dependency that’s ultimately harmful for us.  Maybe it’s His way of moving us on to some other area of service.  One thing is sure: we can trust our loving Father to do what is right, even if we don’t understand the way He takes.  It is good to be reminded of this by reading again the words of the prophet Isaiah above.

I am still “coasting” from my week at Bluebell Springs.  It had been such a long time since I had the opportunity to put myself into a virtual wilderness setting that I almost forgot what a joy it is to observe close up the work that God’s creatures are carrying on every minute of every day while we putter around in our cars from work to home to the store  to restaurants and to whatever else we do.  While I am back in the office, a part of me is still celebrating the wonder of creation in that special place.

I was especially taken by the birds this time.  Two families of geese with goslings born two weeks apart were fattening up on the lawn and on the special treats Jim tosses out each evening—so he and Bev can watch the fascinating interactions among the geese, the ravens, the Steller’s jays, the cowbirds, the red-winged blackbirds, and the sparrows as they compete for food.  A family of mallards has also taken up residence in their refuge too—drawing the attention of a mink that has been drooling over the ducklings.  Eagles patrol the shoreline as well, but none came in for a meal of tender bird flesh while I was there. Fortunately the goslings are all big enough to be almost beyond the capacity of raptors to handle—besides being diligently guarded by very protective parents.  Jim and Bev feel they could almost write a book now on goose parenting, by which they have been profoundly impressed.

The swallows, however, drew my attention the most.  Two species have found a home at Bluebell Springs: the violet-green swallow and the barn swallow.  They do not know where the violet-greens are nesting, but there is no doubt where the barn swallows are nesting: all over their buildings.  Jim has to keep washing off the mud daubs near their windows since they learned the hard way how easily bird lice will migrate to humans as soon as the birds have fledged.  He has given them the upper reaches, however, so that a number of families now claim Bluebell Springs as home.  And “claim” is the right word.  You do not claim them as your birds; they claim you as their humans.  One evening my brother and I were looking out of two adjacent windows at a barn swallow perched on the roof hardly four feet from our faces.  And it was looking back and forth at each of us with trusting eyes that seemed to say, “Aren’t we all having a great time?”  When Jim went out with his John Deere or I took my car down the beach road we were both accompanied by the swallows feeling as though we were direct descendants of St. Francis.  Ostensibly they were hunting bugs, but it was fairly apparent that they were playing with us, and enjoying it immensely.

In the morning and evening, the blacktail deer joined the birds in celebration of life at Bluebell Springs.  And at the close of dusk, the swallows perched and allowed the bats to take over the night shift of clearing insects out of the air and from the surface of the pond.  Winged life that clearly did not find this place a refuge was insect life!  This fact was highlighted one evening when a foolhardy dragonfly came in to “harvest” bugs with the birds.  It was too big for the swallows, but the red-winged blackbirds knew a tasty treat when they saw it.  Two of them went up like fighter interceptors and then fluttered in the air like ungainly hummingbirds trying to pick it out of the sky.  To the dragonfly’s great relief, it had the speed and agility to manage an escape and a rapid retreat into the firs, hemlocks, and cedars of the surrounding forest.

My experience at Bluebell Springs was a feast for the eyes—and the soul.

See you outdoors!

Dean

Sunday I put up two hummingbird feeders—motivated by the discovery that hummingbirds were visiting the patch of catmint in the center of the cul-de-sac in front of our condo.  We don’t see them often around our place, which, because of the abundance of shade, is devoid of flowers.  And, frankly, Michigan is not the hummingbird capital of the world.  East of the Mississippi, there is only one type: the ruby throat.

When we lived in Southern California several years ago, we were spoiled: we’d typically draw six different species to our feeders: Anna’s, Allen’s, Costa’s, Rufous, Calliope, and Black-chinned.  And they were royal entertainment.

In order to be generous, we hung two feeders on the opposite sides of a long patio overhang.  That’s when we discovered the ungenerous nature of these delicate creatures: they don’t like to share if they can help it.  I guess it’s in the genes that when hummers discover a source of food, they stake their claim to it and then spend hours every day chasing away other birds—even, or maybe especially, “birds of a feather.”  Some tried to claim both feeders and raced back and forth each chasing off the “owner” of the other.  We would spend much leisure time watching these wars—often commenting that they would not have to take in so much nectar if they learned to live at peace with each other.

I was surprised one day when I was taking down a feeder to refill it.  One of the brazen little birds came and hovered up to within six inches of my nose, seeming to say “take your hands off my food, buster!”  I could have easily snuffed out its proud little life but instead laughed at its audacity.

Then I realized how much this was like people getting into the face of God, angry at being deprived of that they consider theirs—not seeming to have a clue that without God they would have nothing.  That the bird didn’t understand that a temporary loss would ultimately be gain was also like people and God.  Isn’t it a wonder also that God tolerates our pride and audacity?

Our heavenly Father often takes things away from us in order to give us more—or perhaps end a dependency that’s ultimately harmful for us.  Maybe it’s His way of moving us on to some other area of service.  One thing is sure: we can trust our loving Father to do what is right, even if we don’t understand the way He takes.  It is good to be reminded of this by reading again the words of the prophet Isaiah:

Isaiah 55:6-11. Seek the Lord while He may be found, call upon Him while He is near; let the wicked forsake their way, and the unrighteous their thoughts; let them return to the Lord, that He may have mercy on them, and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon. For My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways My ways, says the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways and My thoughts than your thoughts.”

See you outdoors!

Dean

Friday was the third of a short string of sunny warm days which came to an end today:  our April showers have returned.  But I was able to get outside and experience some of the wonders of early spring in our neck of the woods.  One of the most dynamic of the spring things is the mating and nesting activity of the birds.  I have three nest boxes in our Juneberry tree, one of which is a gourd that has been claimed by a pair of chickadees.

Since the chickadee is my favorite backyard bird, I’m happy about their moving in.  I like their joie de vivre: their obvious zest for living.  They are so tiny and vulnerable that you’d think they’d live with a dread sense of jeopardy—always looking over their shoulder for danger.  Instead they are filled with a curiosity and boldness that amazes me.  It’s like they have said to themselves, “Ain’t nothing we can do about being small and easy targets; so there’s no sense in wasting life in a state of worry.  If we die, we die; so let’s live life with gusto.”

So Friday I was standing at my potting table getting things ready for spring and gently “pishing” to see if I could catch the attention of any and all nearby birds.  Pishing is a trick birders have used for years to call birds to them, but no one seems to know where the practice came from.  Its typical form is like hissing “Shhh” with a P in front of it.  A variation is the sound you make when you want to call someone to you to tell them a secret: “Pssst.”  It can be loud or soft.  Loud, it must sound like a bird in distress.  Soft, it seems to raise curiosity.  No one, of course, knows exactly why it works.  If you want to read about it and other forms of calling birds, pick up the book The Art of Pishing by Pete Dunne and published by Stackpole Books.  It highlights several ways of attracting birds by mimicking their calls.  On the cover are the photos of two birds: the chickadee and the tufted titmouse.  These two just can’t seem to ignore pishing.  One spring I did the call loudly in my old orchard—while concealed in a tall bush.  Within five minutes, ten different species of birds had come to check it out—including, to my delight, a brilliant yellow warbler.

As I was working and pishing softly, it was hardly a minute before my pair of chickadees came over for a visit.  One alighted on the corner of the potting table about three feet from my elbow.  The other perched on a branch about four feet above my head.  In response to the sound they tip their heads much like a dog does when it hears an unusual sound.

Later in the day, I decided to take a walk in the woods to check on the progress of spring.  Our church sits on a piece of land that was once a mature woodlot.  Much of the woodland remains, but since we are fairly new to this church, I had never walked the woods before.  My stroll was a joy, with new-life discoveries every few feet.  Trout lilies (adder’s tongue) were coming up in profusion, and patches of brilliant white bloodroot and the smaller Canada anemone could be spotted at a significant distance.  Spring beauties were everywhere.  And there were also some large patches of wild leek, the broad leaves of which provided the first swatches of green on the brown forest floor.

Birdlife was abundant and loud.  Above a vernal pool echoing with the sounds of spring peepers and chorus frogs, a large congregation of common grackles had found a number of nest holes, and the whole group was squeaking and crawking like a dozen garden gates in need of oiling.  Walking away from that cacophony, I was able to pick up the territorial call of a tufted titmouse.  It sounds like the typical whistle you make when calling a dog, only slower and with two or three notes instead of four.  It is an easy call to mimic.  And the titmouse does not like to be mimicked!  Within a few minutes, he was in a tree straight over my head.  Not only was he scolding me, he was fluttering his wings to let me, his supposed rival, know that I was encroaching on his territory.

These sorts of outdoor delights come only once a year, and I enjoyed them to the full.  The experience has energized my entire weekend.

See you outdoors,

Dean