Mockingbird Manger

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Some might say, chirp, chirp, chirp. But it sounds more like a squeak, to me.

It’s still dark. But if you’re an early riser, you know, birds show more faith than we, they don’t need to see, to believe, while still dark, they sing, and before the song is through, the sun has risen.

I smile. Guess the babies don’t wait, either.

Back in January the old Christmas tree wound up standing in the carport. We planned to get rid of her, because after years of faithful service, she was shedding needles like a real tree. That was a bit, too real, for my wife, so the old tree had to go.

There she sat, looking kind of real, and sort of decorative, too pretty to throw. The mockingbird thought the old fake tree looked like a new real home, and there she built a nest and laid four of the prettiest eggs you ever saw.

In no time there were three babies, all mouths. I don’t know what happened to number four.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

I picture their weary, feathered parents. They’ve been working non-stop, guarding the nest and feeding the chicks. They probably were never more than fifty yards from the nest but must’ve flown hundreds of miles each, back and forth with worms and bugs in their beaks.

Wonder if they ever say, “It’s your turn—I fed them last time.”

The sun was up, they were doing fine, just squeaking away from that fake Christmas tree as I pulled out of the drive.  

I placed Church signs and American flags by the road, set up the sound system and laid down the hymnals. The Sunday routine to transform our clubhouse into our Church house takes less than half an hour—but that was all it took.

As I pulled back into the drive, my heart sank.

The Christmas tree was leaning. Even though I’d tied it to the carport lattice, to keep the wind from blowing it over. 

All was silent. No squeak, squeak, squeak. No chirping alarm or dive-bombing parents as I approached. One of the plastic legs at the base of the tree was cracked. Something happened.  

I clenched my jaw when I noticed the outside edge of the nest was pulled down…the empty nest.

Evidence of what had happened lay on one of the lower branches of the tree. A feather. A big feather. A feather that surely came from mom or dad.

Something dark caught my eye. Five feet from the tree, in the grass, lay fluffy furlike feathers (like the kind that had covered the babies). Right in the middle of it all lay, mama bird. Dead.

What could’ve done this? A snake? A cat? I was only gone
for half an hour.  

I looked around. No snake. No cat. No babies…but wait. I heard it. That squeak I loved. There she (or he) was. Shorter than the blades of grass. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. 

I reshaped the nest. Re-secured the tree. Wondered what to do next. Can you touch the baby or will that cause parents to reject it?

My neighbor was outside. I told her the story. She called someone she called “the bird lady.” But she wasn’t in.

I was told not touching the baby was an old wife’s tale. So, I placed baby back in the nest.

Before too long, daddy (I think it was daddy, but maybe it was mommy), showed up with a gift in his beak.

All was well and good, until Junior, after having a taste of freedom, hopped out of the nest and tumbled to the ground, the concrete carport driveway ground. But that didn’t seem to hurt—or knock any sense into—the little bird-brain.

After putting the little bird back into the nest, and it jumping out and escaping, time and time again, I decided the little thing was a girl, and named her after my daughter, Kayla. Why?  Well, that’s another story.

I tried reshaping the nest so it was deeper. Didn’t matter, Kayla hopped up and tumbled down. I cut a milk container and set the nest inside of it. I cut the sides too low. She jumped the wall. Finally, I put the nest in an ice cream bucket and tied the bucket to the tree.

Daddy was pretty ticked off at me the whole time. I don’t know mockingbird, but even if I did, I’m sure I wouldn’t repeat what he said. Don’t blame him a bit. Actually, impressed at how protective he is of his baby. Even if she acts like a juvenile delinquent. There’s a whole lot of men who should take a lesson from this bird.  

He was pretty wary of the ice cream bucket nest, but eventually gave in to the squeak, squeak, squeak and landed on the edge of the bucket and plunged a worm into Kayla’s mouth just to shut her up…at least for a minute or two.

I was relieved. Because for a moment, I thought he might be a deadbeat dad. I saw him already flying after another tail. He was pecking his beak on the neighbor’s plastic antenna, like a woodpecker. He hadn’t done that in months. Perhaps before he married his bride. Because, I’m told he was doing that, peck, peck, peck, peck, to show off. A mating call of sorts. But now that his dearly beloved, has become dearly departed, he is already looking for another. Single parenting is a pretty big job. He knows, he needs help—fast.

The signs and flags are no longer on the road, the sound system is shut down and the hymnals are put up, the daylight is fading fast.

I'm back in the same chair where I started this day. Where I heard the squeak, squeak, squeak of a nest full of babies, where I wondered about weary mom and dad only concerned about whose turn it was to feed their babies…

But now, everything has changed.

Can you relate?

Jesus said “Consider the birds, they don’t sow or reap, or gather into barns, yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?”

He also said, the enemy comes to steal, kill and destroy, but I’ve come, that you might have Life.

Darkness is falling and I’m thinking that mockingbird manger sure didn’t turn out like I thought it would. Neither has life. But then, I remember another manger and nod and smile as I hear the sound of hope.

It sounds a lot like, “squeak, squeak, squeak.”