Covered in Love

One of the small delights of spring is watching the arrival of baby birds and the devoted care they receive from their mothers. At the lake I saw a killdeer huddled up on the shore and I thought it strange because they usually skitter along the water’s edge, busily feeding. She finally popped up and two little ones scampered from beneath her on their spindly legs. I smiled like a child beholding the surprise buried inside the cereal box. They were completely covered in their mother’s feathery warmth.

Later at my parents’ house, they announced the baby doves had hatched in the hanging basket on their porch. Mama dove was sitting a bit higher than usual, but still patiently stationed at her post. Soon, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and two little ones emerged. I was amazed at their generous size. How do they fit underneath her, covered by her bulk, which was not much more than theirs? 

I pictured them, quiet and still, covered in their mother’s love. Except when they’re hungry. Then they wobble about, mouths gaping and uttering plaintive little cries. Feed me. Fill me. I can’t do it on my own. I rely on you completely for my sustenance. 

Although I flew from the nest long ago, and even built one of my own with a brood to lovingly tend to, I still haven’t learned how to feed myself. Knowing and doing are two different things. I can read plans and pay money to join them. I can understand that carbs and refined sugars do nothing but puff me up. I can journal and count and step and sweat and still… So frustrated with the hormonal roller coaster and slowing metabolism. Tight pants and squishy belly. When did this become me? So fed up, but can’t manage to just be fed the right way.

Although I flew from the nest long ago, I still haven’t learned how to soar. Weighed down by myself and my neediness. My desire for validation and approval. I can’t seem to get off the ground. Waiting for purpose to give me lift. Waiting for the small special parts inside me to shine; for the pancake-shaped melanosomes that contain tiny air bubbles to catch the light. Waiting for someone to see the iridescence in my feathers and proclaim that I am worthy. Why do I keep waiting for lift and light when the only place I will find peace and fulfillment is covered by the father’s love?

Sometimes I think it shouldn’t be this hard. That I should be past this at my age. I should know how to eat right, and know that my worth comes from God, not work, or validation from others. But this is life. So many pitfalls and such a hard climb. I want to curl up into a ball even though I’m too big for that. Curl up and be covered by a patient mother’s love. Or maybe a Father’s. 

I want to be that baby bird covered by love. Or maybe I am that baby bird, and I need to close my gaping mouth and quiet my plaintive cry and be still. And feel the feathery blanket of love that covers me.