Sparrow's Fall

11.28.2013

It was early Thanksgiving morning when the harp sparrow hit the high window over our front door. We were sitting quietly, talking about what we were grateful for, when the THUNK of a head-on hit resounded into the quiet.

As for the sparrow, he never felt a thing; his last anticipation was that the seed on the north side of the house would soon be breakfast. One of many who have hit that window, he saw sky and open space where there was none, like so many of us.

However, being Thanksgiving, leaving him in front of the doormat, perfect, eyes open, just completely stopped in midflight, was not an option. I gently scooped the beautiful little body into a planter bowl and set it aside, not giving it another thought.

We have Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners at two in the afternoon. Except for her silverware, it’s the sole holdover from my grandmother’s tradition (and like other traditions of that kind, I have no idea whether she started it or picked it up from her grandmother). We no longer try to make turkey like hers (none of our guests seems to appreciate it) nor do we eat the same things she cooked (rarely do we have family for this holiday, and even they were not part of her tradition, so we’ve devolved to green bean casserole . . .but that’s another story entirely.)

Two o’clock came and went (no one else on the planet shares this tradition, apparently), but by three, there was a full cadre, including five children ranging from just two to almost ten.

After dinner, it was still light long enough for the kids to run in and out, around the house and through the side gate, doing that thing all kids do—chasing each other for the heck of it. Ashlynn is nine, Philana is seven, Damien is six, Pyper is five, and Audrina is two. They were all running, chasing, tromping through the dust recently sprinkled into stickiness by intermittent showers, drawing on the driveway with chalk, when Ashlynn found the sparrow’s body in the planter bowl.

I was putting something away in the garage when she came to me, aghast. “What HAPPENED?”

They gathered, shocked as only children can be at the awfulness of this death. I explained that birds often hit windows because they can’t tell it is not sky, and that this little one had never felt any pain and on and on.

“How often do they hit this window?” asked Ashlynn.

“Oh, at least one a year.” (And now I realize that it’s probably about six a year since I began throwing seed on the patio. O dear. I have created an irresistible hazard!)

Damien looked up, as serious as only a six-year-old can be. “We have to bury him.”

They set to work. With hand tools they found on the bench, they began to construct the most elaborate grave any bird could wish for, if funeral preparation ever entered their minds. They lay the little body in a shallow depression in soft soil (and managed to avoid digging up the irrigation hose). They rearranged the river stones for a perimeter, picked and lay clovers over the dirt inside the perimeter. One of them drew a picture of the bird on a paper leaf and lay it on the rocks at the foot of the grave (an unmarked grave is sadder than no grave at all!). They protected the picture with the discarded garage door handle, weighted by another river stone. At the head, they placed a small birdhouse-shaped decoration that had been part of a dilapidated pot-holder-chair built by Forrest, who passed away in August. It was a perfect headstone.

Around the perimeter, Philana scooped and scattered yet another perimeter of new gravel (just laid and not for decorative purposes!).

But then, Pyper said breathlessly, “We need to have a funeral. We need to pray!”

And she prayed for a good minute, words that reflect her own mother’s sweet heart. That child had far more words than most could muster for such an occasion, so perhaps they funerate for birds often.

“Dear God, thank You for this bird. He was a good bird. We hope he is in heaven . . . ” she prayed an extensive prayer for someone not quite seven—but she’s recently been to her great-grandfather’s funeral, so maybe she had some ammunition from that as well.

I then told them that Jesus talked specifically about sparrows: He said not a single sparrow falls without God noticing, so this one mattered to God, too.

Where did they get such extensive grave-decorating ideas? Such words for prayers? There is no doubt that this is the final resting place of a bird that was highly celebrated—at least, until some other critter digs him up.

(There was interest in that, too—Ashlynn wanted to know where the others were buried. O dear—perhaps I tossed them into the trash can . . . not a good confession for one so passionate about funerals.)

But no sparrow in history has been more honored in its death than this one. And I have no doubt that every one of these kids will be looking for him in heaven.