The Gospel According to a Baby Finch

We hang a wreath from our front door year-round. Not because we’re Christmas fanatics, (although we very much are, thanks a lot, Catholic school). Because the wreath serves as the foundation for a finch family’s nest. Mom and Dad usually pump out at least three batches of baby birds from April to September. Sometimes four or more if we’re lucky.

In fact, they’re about to be empty nested again. Last time I checked there were only three babies left; until I nudged one to do the very thing God made him to do.

Fly.

That was on Monday evening. I just finished a walk after dinner, and as I approached the front door, one of the youngins crowded the edge of the nest. I thought he was Mom at first; he stood so tall and proud.

“Well?” I asked him, closing the gap between us. “We doing this, or what?”

He hopped back by his two siblings, who still had more fur than feathers, bundled up against one another. Those two weren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

But the one looked ready, (and he did, he had little tufts of fur that hadn’t shed yet just above his eyes that looked like eyebrows that wouldn’t quit) hopped back up to the edge once I opened the door, then shut it behind me.

He stood at the edge, swallowing hard and making a big gulp sound I imagine.

I turned the lock on the door. The chunking sound made him crowd the edge even more, going out on a limb. He fluttered his wings.

“C’mon.” I egged him on. “You got it.”

Then he froze. Maybe he was unsure of himself? Maybe he, like so many of us, doubted the very thing that God made him to do.

Fly.

A finch that never flies is self-sabotage, same goes for you and me.

I tapped the window I was looking at him through and off he went.

Just like that, gone.

Who in your life is doubting the very thing God made them to do? Is it you? Then consider this the nudge you need to take flight.