The Cusp

On my walk I happened upon a newly dead robin.


It must have  flown into a car.  The road is edged on both sides by hedges, trees and greenery and is a perfect haven for such beautiful wildlife.  So a road with vehicles carelessly and clumsily dividing the countryside, dividing the land, become an intrusion to the innocent free little creatures made by God.  Made by Love.  A darling innocent free little creature previously oblivious to mans intrusion.  This man-made contraption without even noticing the full force of its weight or the life of an innocent beautiful robin, in its blindness killed.

The creature was young and perfect.  To see a robin dead made something deep inside of me instantly contract, and then when there was no more contraction, surge and gasp open.  Surge and gasp open into what I don’t know, sorrow, compassion, hurting, helplessness . . . helplessness.   In all its perfect beauty, and with all my maternal instinct I couldn’t help but pick it up.  To hold its little body cupped in my hand was like a prayer. Why . . . I don’t know.  A prayer for what purpose I didn’t consider.  Just that the cup of my hand with a newly dead robin whose life had just been taken was a prayer in itself.

I know afterwards when I had gathered myself that I asked St Francis to take the little creature in spiritual flight, and restore it in Love to the life it too soon lost on Earth.  To hold the weightlessness of its now ephemeral form.  To touch its little body.  To stroke my thumb over the softest downy untainted feathers.   To observe a most humble little creature dressed in a most regal little robe was a privilege unimaginable.  To be so close. To hold the cusp of death so close, so tangible . . . in the cup of my hand.  To feel it not quite as close as holding my Dads hand as he stepped over the threshold, but still so close.  To be there just after the moment . . . Just living . . .  just dead.  To hold.

A prayer and a wonder to behold.

I lay the little creature down and ponder its passover for the rest of my walk.  On the way home again the wonder of the little body, and the bib, vibrantly ambery/red, aflame as if an emblem of so much Love pouring out from its breast which was too small to be contained, moved me to want to tangibly feel it again.  So I did.  Body now slightly firmer. I took a photo lest I should forget the perfect detail.  I stroked its feathers with fingertips of Love never to be known but to Him.  And now in a lesser way to you, because I felt compelled to share the beautiful side of our life imbued humanity.

Humanity that needs to feel . . . to care . . . to touch . . . to Love.

To be in the same moment as God.


About mags

Beloved apostle of His Soul x
This entry was posted in female discipleship, Nature and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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