Fluttering

Remember the mama mourning dove who was nesting in a corner of my porch? Last spring I was a little superstitious about that nest because like the mama dove, I was also spending my days in an uncomfortable attempt to nurture a tiny and invisible new life. (I tell you what, my friends, I am grateful to God every day that I am not spending my days in a miasma of nausea this spring. Wow, that was tough.) I took it personally when the first dove abandoned her nest. I thought, "Hey, come back! We were in this together!" Later that season another dove (or the same one? hard for me to tell) tried again and also bailed, scared away by one of my curious sons.

So I didn't have high hopes for this nest. But! I was wrong! This morning I was waiting for the plumber to come and clear our bathroom sink when I noticed a veritable mourning dove convention on my front porch. I had a moment of grinchiness, in which I thought, "What are they doing on my porch? I hope they don't get bird poop all over the swing." And then I looked a little closer and noticed that two of the birds were fledglings, watching as their mama tried to show them how it's done.

Last spring at this time I was trying desperately to keep all the balls in the air, to finish coursework and a First Communion banner. I was so worried about my baby and so. wretchedly. sick. This spring, though, I have the sweetest chubbiest baby you ever saw. I am still feeling some solidarity with that mama dove as both of us coax our fledglings into flight. But this year it is a happy solidarity -- I am reveling in blooming daffodils and evening light. And I am thinking about how fitting it is for Easter to be a springtime feast, when we celebrate the sovereignty of the one who says, "Behold, I make all things new."