6/13/2008
What I Learned From Mother Robin
When I was a young boy, our family lived in a cozy, red brick house with white shutters in a small and sleepy Midwestern town. Summer was my favorite time of year. At bedtime, which was right around dusk, my mother would throw open my bedroom window, and I’d fall asleep listening to the rustling leaves of the giant maple tree just outside.
Our neighborhood was full of kids about my own age. In the summertime we’d squeeze every moment out of the day playing together, getting into as much trouble as grade school children could. The back yards we’d cut through were an enormous, tiger-infested jungle. For our secret fort, we used the (completely off limits) attic in our detached garage. We would capture lightning bugs in jars and set elaborate traps for rabbits (I don’t remember ever catching one). We’d dare the youngest in our group to ring the doorbell of the creepy old man on the corner who always wore overalls and walked with an exaggerated limp.
One evening about seven or eight of us heard a loud chirping in the maple tree by my bedroom. We discovered that robins had built a nest in the tree, low enough for us to reach after a short climb. In the nest were two small eggs. The mother, perched high in the tree, must have been chirping to scare us away; as we drew close to the nest, her chirping grew louder and more intense.
An older boy, Jim, who was a bully, started throwing stones at Mother Robin. She flew to the rooftop next door, but continued chirping. A debate began about what to do with the eggs.
“Let’s break ‘em!” someone shouted.
“Let’s take ‘em and see if they hatch!” another suggested.
Something seemed wrong about my friends deciding what would happen to the eggs, which had been found, after all, in my tree. I felt a vague sense of ownership, but I just stood there. The other kids were mostly older, and seemed bent on destruction. My mom and dad, who were within shouting distance in the house, might have come to the rescue, but I didn’t call out.
At some point Jim grabbed the eggs and smashed them on the sidewalk in front of our house, leaving a slimy, brownish-yellow mess on the concrete. The kids started poking at it with sticks. After a while they lost interest and scattered. And there I was all alone, staring at the sidewalk, shamed and nervous, as if I had committed a terrible crime. It was dusk. Time for bed.
Mom tucked me in and threw open the window. I could not bring myself to tell her what had happened, though I wanted to. Standing at the bedroom door, she said, “What is wrong with that bird?”
Outside my window Mother Robin was chirping, but not the kind of chirp you’d ever want to hear. What was emanating from her tiny, innocent beak was the loudest and most agonizing noise I had ever heard. Mother Robin was crying.
Her shrieking was the sound of unendurable pain — and an accusation. Every new outburst overwhelmed me with guilt and sadness and regret. I pulled the covers over my head. Mother Robin was talking to me. She said, what had happened could never be undone, could never be forgiven.
I don’t remember whether I cried myself to sleep that night, or if I slept at all. Though many decades have passed, and I have thought of a hundred ways to explain away what happened that night, Mother Robin’s crying is never far from me. When I know my heart is in the right place, her crying is soft. When I stumble into selfishness and indifference, it is very, very loud.
__________
What childhood memories stick with you?
This post is part of Robert Hruzek’s latest What I Learned From … group project, now co-sponsored by the High Calling blog.
19 Responses to What I Learned From Mother Robin
When I was eight, I had a mouse named Vanderhaar.
I had named it after my favorite Australian Rules Football player, who was famous for taking spectacular leaps in the over other players to ‘mark’ (catch) the football.
One day, my sister, my next door neighbor and I decided to test Vanderhaas flying skills, to see if they matched his namesake. To this end, we decided to throw him up in a plastic cone so that he crashed into the roof in our living room.
Vanderhaar the mouse saw a tragic to his life that day, and I was gripped by a feeling of guild and shame about my part in the affair.
Brad, what you heard that day was literally a bird who had just lost its young. But I am willing to bet that the very loud cry you hear when you stumble into selfishness and indifference is the cry of your conscience.
Cheers
Andrew
Andrew, thanks for sharing that story, though it is quite sad. Funny how vivid such memories tend to be. It will be interesting to read the other posts in Robert’s project just for that reason.
Gee, Brad, sounds like you were a sadly typical kid when you you were young. Amazing how the lessons learned as a child can stay with us so powerfully over time.
But the lesson this incident taught you has made you a better person (alas, not a universal result for everyone, I’m afraid), and in this all is not lost.
Cheers, my friend!
What a terrible story Brad. I’m not sure if I’m glad you shared it with us or not! But it’s a powerful one all right, and one I’m sure will stick with me.
Joanna
Brad,
What a sad story–an experience that clearly made an impact on your life. It’s unfortunate that some of the best lessons come to us through our mistakes, but a great blessing that we can at least learn from them.
Thank you for sharing your story!
Have a wonderful weekend!
Lisa
Brad, I read with tears in my eyes. I have never heard the cries of a mother bird but I felt them in your post. Your story was beautiful (might we see it in your book one day?) and haunting. One memory that has stuck with me for life is the last conversation I had with my best friend Ronald. We were 6 and sat on his steps having an adult conversation about his tonsillectomy the next day. I so clearly remember asking if he was scared, can remember the look on my face & the seriousness of my tone. They made a mistake in the OR and my friend died. He was my first best friend and most memorable.
Brad,
This post really touched me, also. I felt the pain of the mother bird, and I felt your pain and guilt. It’s a sad story but a powerful lesson for you.
Lisa, True, all of learn certain things the hard way, but maybe that’s the best way. Karen, what happened to Ronald must be hard to talk about; hard to take a positive lesson from that. Joanna, Robert, & Lillie, you make me wonder why those painful experiences are more powerful than the pleasant ones.
You tell this story in such a way that I enter in and experience the pain with you, Brad. In life I think we all become Mother Robin at times and I sense later she also sang you a song of forgiveness because she could read your heart!
Robyn, leave it to you to put a positive spin on this story – thank you!
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Brad,
you told us a very moving story. And I am glad you shared it with us, even if it is focused on death. It is a story I will never forget.
Ulla
Thank you, Ulla. I enjoyed your project story as well, and it was much more positive!
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Although this is a really sad story Brad when we learn from our mistakes/misdeeds we all benefit. Even at that young age you learned a great lesson on the taking responsibility. I would be willing to bet that if a similar situation had come up afterwards you would have taken a different stance.
thanks for sharing
I am always moved by thse stories of children who learn to their sorrow that some consequences are irreversible. Yours was very touching and sad. Thank you for posting it.
Jackie, You ask the million dollar question. I hope you are right. Ruth, Painful to write, painful to read, but I hope there truly is something to be gained from a sad story.
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