In the company of a kingfisher

I love birds.

Perhaps I should have been an ornithologist  - although science wasn't my strength.
Or perhaps a dedicated 'twitcher' - although I haven't got the telescopic cameras that provide exceptional glimpses of a bird's feathered beauty for those patient enough to wait and wait and wait.

There's something about watching birds  - the way the large fledglings pester their parents for food, the squabbling over crumbs by the bins near the beach, the delicate courtship dances, the swoops and stall dives of the resident wood pigeons - that makes my heart lighter.

And there's something about listening to birdsong - the morepork's haunting,  repetitive notes echoing through the darkness, the racket of sparrows sorting out their sleeping arrangements in the roosting tree, and the tui's trills and whistles just before dawn - that makes my spirit sing.

The kingfisher or, in Maori,  'Kotare'  is my all-time favourite. Years ago its coming and going with flashes of brilliance reminded me of the way the divine entered my life - sometimes bright and clear, at other times fleeting and mystical.

In September 2006,  I had an encounter with  a kingfisher that left me blessed and grateful.
My husband and I were a long way from home. Diagnosed with dangerous blockages in his heart only a week before, he was in a specialised hospital undergoing a quadruple bypass operation. It was a long operation and so I went for a walk to the playing fields nearby to occupy some time and get some respite from hospital walls and the heaviness of my thoughts.

As I walked into the field, a flash of turquoise caught my attention - a kingfisher was sitting on a tree about five metres away. Nothing unusual about that.

But what happened next remains with me to this day.

As I began to walk, the kingfisher flew a little way ahead of me. And each time I caught up with this brilliantly beautiful bird, it took flight again and settled a a few metres ahead. This happened several times until I reached the big field. The kingfisher by then had settled on the higher vantage point of a power line and stayed there while I made a couple of circuits , my steps and thoughts lightening as I got some much needed exercise and released some of my anxiety into the care of the great Love some of us name as God.  As I turned to go back to the hospital, I looked at the kingfisher expecting it to stay where it was - but instead it flew ahead of me. And so we repeated our outward journey's pattern - I walked and the kingfisher kept me company until it was time to leave the park.

Now you may think me fanciful but for me that bird was a Godly messenger - reminding me that I was not alone in this ordeal, that God was in so many ways keeping me company - through the beauty of the creation, through the prayers of friends all over the country, and through the Spirit at work in the world - in the medical team whose efforts saved my husband's life, and in the kingfisher's soothing presence as I paced and prayed.

I did not know it at the time, but the kingfisher takes its name, Halcyon sacra from a mythical bird who was able to calm the wind and the waves as it nested on the sea during the winter solstice.

I think of the One who calmed the wind and waves on the Sea of Galilee.

Between them, Jesus and the kingfisher certainly calmed the storm in me and allowed hope to be born from heartache.

Walking by on the other side

I went for a walk with husband and dog as usual this morning.
There was a commotion on the route we normally take and,
before we could see clearly what was happening, I went to go the other way.
But husband was already ahead, interested in the activity, and I followed,
as I often do.

We got closer and saw damaged cars and men standing on the pavement near us.

A  police car arrived and the officer went to the woman still sitting in her
side-swiped car and asked if she was all right.
I could not hear her reply but I could see she was holding herself
upright as if concentrating hard on something intangible.
Perhaps she gave the almost automatic ' yes,thanks'  in spite of
her situation, not wanting to make a fuss.
Convention doesn't help us in times like these.
I wondered if I should stop and go over to her until someone of her own
came to offer comfort.

But I didn't.
I kept walking and the policeman left her and turned back to his vehicle.
The men on the pavement  chatted on their phones,
and one a little further away took more pictures, careful of his angles
and the light.

The woman was alone.

We turned the corner.
I hesitated.
I thought about what it might be like to be shocked and alone.
To be without a hand to hold.
There was an almost tangible impulse.
I said 'I think I'll go back.'
Husband and dog continued their walk.

Only two or three minutes had passed, but by the time I got back,
there was someone else by the car.
She had a cardigan on over her uniform and her young hand was on the
woman's pulse. Human touch - woman's hand to woman's hand.
I heard an ambulance in the distance.

I went by another route to my destination
and thought about the Good Samaritan story.
I've always thought that I would be that Samaritan
the one who stopped and took care of the man
at some personal cost and inconvenience.

But what I discovered this morning was
a less attractive reality:
I was the one who gawked and passed by
the one who hesitated but moved on
until the Spirit reminded me of
who I am supposed to be.

I had missed an opportunity to help another person
even for a couple of minutes.
I had missed an opportunity to touch Christ.

Being Beatrice

I go to see Beatrice today -  I find her  in the big lounge - one of the many sitting in a semi-circle of wandering minds,as notes from Andre Rieu's violin  float past muffled ears like so many dandelion seeds in the wind.

I tell her my name and push her comfy chair to a small private lounge.
We sit facing each other.
We are not in any hurry to go or do anything.
The room is tidy, clinical, a kitchen space, some chairs, a window curtained bright, a table.
She cannot reach these things.
She can't remember what they are for.
Someone has chosen her clothes with care
this morning; the colour of her necklace is reflected in her shirt and her nails are clean and polished.

I introduce myself again and she briefly becomes alert when I mention our common links of family and church. She starts to talk and I listen intently.
Her words are a mixed bag: here and there a run of two or three reveal a small piece of the puzzle her life has become. References to clothing, food, her sons, an old friend pop to the surface like bubbles and then evaporate into the silence.
We sit gently in the space they leave behind.

She inhabits this silence with an air of wondering, an occasional frown and then something makes her smile and she waves her hand and her eyes crinkle. I don't know what the joke is  but I mirror her delight with my smile.
Silence settles again.
There is no rush ... until ...

There is a knock on the door. A carer pops her head round the door - time to gather folk for their mid-day meal. I nod. The door closes.
I tell her again who I am and ask her if we might pray the Lord's Prayer together before I go.
She smiles.
I begin the old version and so does she.
Words emerge in their proper sequence without hesitation.
I see her lips form familiar phrases as her voice gets quieter.
At the end she says, quite firmly, " Thank you, Lord for helping me get through."
Clear as day.
"Thank you Lord," I whisper as I take her hands and kiss her cheek.
Her hair may need washing
but her spirit is sparkling.