I'M HERE - ALWAYS

I think I might have hit a wall this week - week 6 of my son's absence.

Perhaps it's the new school year and having my sweet girl move to "upper class man" status. Perhaps it's the onslaught of fundraisers and projects that come with each new school year. Perhaps it's the many plans we are making for Blake's graduation, ten day leave, and welcome-home party.

Whatever it is, I've hit the wall of worry and fatigue that comes from missing somebody who is embedded in your heart.

And so today, when I went to the mailbox for the fifth time - and I do mean FIFTH time - to see if the mailman had finally brought me a letter from my boy (I finally discovered he had not) I was brought down by a baby bird.

A baby bird conquered this recruit mama's heart.

It was a tiny little thing - that bird - no more than two inches tall and two inches long. So tiny it probably weighed no more than one of the maple leaves blowing in our tree nearby. This tiny bird was obviously where he wasn't supposed to be. He was in the middle of our driveway. In the sun. Out in the open. No shelter, no shade, no mama nearby.

And he stood still with his mouth open - yet silent - as though he were trying to call for help but had not quite learned how yet.

I came inside to get my camera but the pictures did not turn out. The sun was too bright, the bird was too tiny, and I suspect the mother was too close for me to approach; for I heard her. I heard the same trill coming from our tree. Over and over, the same pattern, the same call. Surely this sweet yet desperate call could only be that of a mother trying to lead her baby home.

I'm here. Here at home. I'm waiting for you. I'm here. Always.

And then I noticed that mixed in with the pleading call of the mother, was a tiny and plaintiff pattern from the baby.

I'm here. I'm here. I'm here and I don't know how to find you. Keep calling me. Keep calling me home.

I came inside to put the camera away (and to give my heart a break) and when I came back out - just a minute later - my tiny feathered worry was gone. The song of the mother was there but coming from a different tree. And the song sounded less sad, less desperate. I could not find the baby in the grass or under our shrubs.

Oh how I hope mama and baby were reunited. I hope somehow those minute wings of that baby bird were able to lift it into its nest where it belonged so that it could hide itself under its mama's wings and escape the hard cement of our driveway and the blazing heat of the sun.


I have one who has left the nest and one who will leave when I blink once, twice, three times.

The one who has gone? I know he misses me, but I don't think he's sad or lonely or scared. I think he is where he was meant to be; he and I both know it. And yet I still hope, with every letter I write him each night before bed, that he can hear my heart say to him "I'm here. Here at home. I'm waiting for you. I'm here. Always."

And the one who has one foot outside the nest? For now I wish I could put her under my wing and keep her out of the hardness and glaring heat of the world. And perhaps I can. But soon - too soon - I will be sending her off and my heart will be singing the same song:

"I'm here. Here at home. I'm waiting for you. I'm here."

Always.