A Day

First, a musical theme for this day:



A deer hobbled past my window Saturday morning, unable to put weight on her left rear leg. She'd injured it - probably struck by a car. Some days I hate the world we've made, where our need to move seems so pressing that we've invented hurtling, lethal masses of metal which we drive at speeds harzardous to every other living creature on the planet. I hate our cities and roads that cut swaths through virgin forests, destroying habitat and creating new, incomprehensible mazes for all the forest beings.

And some days I don't know why God loves us so much, because frankly, on these days, I'd just as soon do away with us all and leave the planet in peace.

In my heartache I drove my own hurtling hunk of metal out to the parrot refuge where I spent the afternoon cuddling Ester. His remnant tumor on his tail was bugging him. Some days he can't rest because he seems to have twinges in his legs from the scar. So he fidgets and twitches and scratches at the tumor until he pulls the scab off and it bleeds. And that's okay with me (and Wendy). We don't "scold" him like some do for picking at this. Sometimes a wound just needs to bleed. I think.

So I hold him and massage his legs and stroke his ribs and pray in his ear. I remind him what an amazing creature he is and how beautiful he is. I tell him of his future when he will fly more freely and gloriously than we can ever imagine here in this painful era. And I recall the scriptures telling me how all of creation groans, awaiting it's ultimate liberation on that day when we the children will finally be born and fully revealed.

In the meantime my heart groans and like the psalmist's it cries out: "How long, Lord? How Long?"

Soon a mother and father arrive at the front counter with their daughter. She's about 15 years old but due to autism she seems much younger. She has trouble communicating, but apparently she's been here before with her school and loves the birds. She blurts out phrases from time-to-time which remind me of Dustin Hoffman's character in The Rainman. Her name is Stephanie.

As they begin their visit the parents soon realize that Stephanie cannot handle the continual noise and turmoil of the parrots, so Dad retreats outdoors with her to enjoy the warm spring day. Mom takes her turn to visit the other parts of the refuge before returning so Dad can have his visit. And I take Ester out for one his favourite pastimes - a walk in the sun.

Ester and I finally join Stephanie and her dad on a bench by the front door. Ester is now resting in my arms half asleep. Steph loves having the bird close by and from time-to-time she reaches up to stroke his wondrously soft feathers. Then she pulls her hand back as if she's experiencing something too lovely to endure, shuddering in delight. She blurts out some unintelligible (to me) words.

And maybe this is a good analogy for my heartache today. Maybe life in it's wholeness is just too wonderful for me? I do know that to be open fully to the true joy of the world, we also have to be open to the pains and disappointments as well. It's as if these two extremes are felt with the same sensors. And to live life wide open to the one, means being open to the other. And isn't this what all the poets of the ages have tried to tell us? That in order to truly laugh we also have to truly cry.

Slowly, my heart-sorrow and pity for the deer, and for Ester, and for Stephanie and her parents begins to fade and is replaced by admiration for their courage and strength and endurance. I am gently over-whelmed by their determination. That they dare to go on despite the suffering. Every day, they choose to care. They choose to live.

My heart heals just a little.

Then it's time for me to leave the refuge.

At the Qualicum Beach airport the sun is still brightly shining. A few small planes come and go, but generally I putter in solitude, surrounded by the sounds of life as I prepare my small plane for flight. Building and flying this machine was another experience in emotional highs and lows. There were exhilarating moments of accomplishment and thanksgiving, and there were times when I wanted to turn the damn thing into a huge lawn ornament - or worse. The final test of will came when the engine problems surfaced, causing several near power-losses in flight. I finally tracked down the cause and fixed it. Since then the engine has performed flawlessly. But trust, once broken, heals slowly - one flight at a time.

Soon I'm airborne again, surprised as always. When I really think about it I am still in awe that I can lever skyward borne only by ephemeral wind made solid through speed. The snow capped peaks of Mount Arrowsmith shadow me on the right, while the calm waters of Georgia Straight bracket me on the left. I climb to three thousand feet and put the aircraft through some gentle stall maneuvers, feeling the airflow breaking and re-clutching the surface of the wing. I take note of some airspeeds which I will use later to form a more detailed picture of the airplane's performance envelope.

It's good to be lost in activity.

The radio silence is momentarily broken as a small group of pilots returning from a day-trip to Tofino and back chatter happily. It's been a glorious day for sight-seeing across the mountains. I know how close the west coast of the island is by air and hope to make the same trip myself soon when both I and the aircraft are ready. Sometimes life seems to be about waiting, but its actually about preparation.

The flight ends with a smooth approach and touchdown as I see how slowly I can land and how little runway I can use. More information for the flight manual. As I pull back into my parking spot, and shutdown the engine and pop open the canopy I sit peacefully for a moment, feeling the freshness of the breeze and the warmth of the late afternoon sun.

It's been a day of huge emotions and now I'm spent. I'm calm.

The Life goes on. The Day is just a little closer. Even so Lord Jesus, Come.

And now maybe I'll close on this hopeful note: