In third grade, we made papier-mâché birds. I chose to create a Blue Jay. Carefully I crafted his body around a pink balloon – layer, upon layer of newspaper dipped in the water and flour mixture that served as glue, watched him take form as the mess dried. I was excited to paint him that bright tempera paint blue. (Something about the elementary school rule book states children can only be trusted with those non-toxic tempera paints.) Once the blue dried, gingerly I painted on his wings with onyx. And my Jay was ready for display in the school library window.
Proudly, I led my parents down the orange and brown patterned carpet to see my beautiful Blue Jay showcased on the lit glass shelf. They oohed and ahhed appropriately then paused. That pause pulsated, awkward. My parents glanced at each other, at me, then back at each other, not saying a word, yet speaking an entire conversation to each other. I remained (slightly) oblivious, lost in my bird.
Finally, my father cleared his throat. “Uhhh, Sweetie. Your bird, uhm, well, he, well, he’s missing…” his voice trailed off.
If I’d looked over at him, I may have seen him look at my mother and give her one of those, I’m not going to tell her. You tell her, looks that spouses exchange. I may have also seen my mother look back with that expression that said, What? Me? And then from Daddy, Yes, you. And my mother sigh.
My mother cleared her throat, and said gently, “Rachael, what your father is trying to say, is that your bird doesn’t have a beak.”
My green eyes must’ve grown enormous in my little face even as my mouth fell open – ironic as that was the bit of anatomy I’d missed giving to my Blue Jay. In an instant, my perfect bird crashed down from his perch, and exploded into some zillion pieces of hardened newsprint (in my imagination, of course). In reality, the imperfect bird still sat in front of me enclosed in his glass aviary amongst my classmates more physically correct specimens.
“Honey,” my father said softly, “he’s still beautiful,” but I couldn’t see it. My beakless bird had lost his shine.
It snowed in the city this week. I love snow. No, you must understand. I really, really love snow. I love everything about it – the glimmer, the glisten, the smell, the thrilling frostiness. (I say this all aware that I have been blessed with warm clothes, a strong roof, and snug walls that protect me.) Jug and I couldn’t wait to dance out into the backyard and decorate the soft white blanket covering the lawn with our footprints. Well, I couldn’t wait. Jug didn’t say much, just followed me out there. After about ten minutes, that pristine blanket was worn through with muddy brown patches. In other words, it was no longer perfect.
Later as I sat at the kitchen table sipping Earl Grey tea and contemplating the complex pattern of paw prints going ‘round and ‘round the little pond, I thought how beautiful that trail of ruined snow appeared – beautiful for my memories, beautiful for the laughter still hanging in the low, silvery clouds, beautiful for the strength found in the ability to simply be alive. At that moment, Blue Jays (real, live ones) flocked to the bird feeder set amongst the evergreens. My beakless paper guy in his glass cage at Wekiva Elementary flew into my mind, and I smiled. Then, as I watched, outside the window snow began to fall, blessing the world and transforming the imperfect once again – restoring its shine.
By His grace we are healed.
The Unexpected Life 