We have baby birds. Or rather the mama barn swallow who nested on our patio has baby birds. They hatched sometime last week, and all we've seen is four tiny tufts of hair and four big, yellow, open mouths peeking out from the nest.
When we got home tonight, Paul looked out on the patio and saw a baby bird sitting in the flower pot - several feet below the safe, cozy nest. I insisted that we help it. So Paul carefully rigged up a dust pan on a broom, and used our church newsletter to coax the birdie onto the dustpan. He climbed the stepladder and gently shook the bird back into the nest. It worked until the baby bird lost its balance and fell again.
I couldn't watch. The tears started flowing, and I left the room. When he came back inside, I asked through my sobbing if the baby bird had died. It was a bit stunned, but still alive, so Paul repeated the process and safely deposited baby bird back into the nest. I hope mama bird will welcome baby bird. As far as I'm concerned, the baby bird will be just fine until he can fly away on his own. I have to have hope.
This was the first pregnancy emotional hormone incident. Sometimes I realize it in the moment - when I start giggling through my tears because I'm so ridiculous. When Paul gives me a bewildered look, sometimes I take it well...other times I think he's making fun of me, which usually doesn't help. Tonight, I think he was a bit surprised about needing to comfort me over the near death of a baby bird.
The other part of it is that I can't stand to see babies - of any kind - hurting. Not when I know what it's like to be a hurting mama. Baby bird's mother was doing her barn swallow swoops while her baby shivered in the flower pot. She couldn't help her baby, and that just makes my heart hurt.
My heart hurts for some very special mamas who are in the midst of new, raw hurt and loss. I wish I could just scoop them up, too, but all I can do is surround them in prayer.