The Never Ending Gifts

I awakened to the screeching of hawks in the wilderness area in back of my house. Oh no, not again. The hawks had already tried twice to get the owl chick high up in the cottonwood tree. Were they at it again?

I dashed to my back window in time to see the hawks swooping away from the nest and the owlet dangling by its feet from a twig on the outskirt of the tree. Then it fell.

My stomach knotted. Was this it?

I’d been watching the owlet’s life unfold ever since its parents—great horned owls—took over the hawks nest. Bob set up a spotting scope on a tripod in our living room, and several times a day I would peer at mama owl braving the days, fighting to stay awake while she sat guarding her egg.

After a month, I saw the owlet’s white fuzzy head appear from time to time beside mama’s breast. I took videos of mama feeding her chick, and of the owlet’s first steps out onto a nearby branch.

(Wait for it…at 8 seconds, you can see the wings flap)

Now at five weeks, the owlet—I named it Ollie—was about half the size of mama. Its wing feathers had started to come in, but the rest was still fluff—too young to survive on its own. How far did it fall? I ran outside and heard the hawks cawing close to the ground. My heart pounded—did they get it? Dear God, please help Ollie.

As I approached the tangle of blackberry bushes edging the wilderness area, I looked up and saw a motionless blob of fluff on a branch in an oak tree. Through my binoculars I saw what looked like an owlet’s unblinking eyes at one end of the fluff. I readjusted the focus, and the eyes were closed.

My eyes blurred with tears and a painful lump formed in my throat . I ran back inside, got Bob, and brought him out to see.

However, when I pointed out the fluff to him, I saw the owlet’s head was now upright. Ollie was alive! I went inside and shifted the spotting scope to the new location. As the day went on, Ollie looked more and more perky.

Ollie perked up, but I was still an emotional mess. My stomach was in a knot and I couldn’t stop worrying. I tried choking down a few bites of raison bran, but my appetite was gone. And tonight was my big night—I was giving my tenth speech at Toastmasters. Somehow I had to get myself together.

Dear God, I know I can’t do anything for Ollie. Please do all you can. I give Ollie’s wellbeing into your hands.

My load of misplaced responsibility lifted, and I felt lighter.

But the anxious feeling in my stomach persisted, so I put on my worship CD. Third Day’s rockin’ beat and inspirational lyrics ran interference with the rhythm of anxiety in my stomach like a wave from a different direction cancels out a pattern of waves in a pool. Ahh…relief.

I practiced my speech for the rest of the day, and successfully gave it that night. The Great Physician’s remedies for anxiety—handing the problem over to Jesus through prayer, and listening to worship music—worked for me again.