Hawk under umbrella

I was in the kitchen when I heard a wild beating and clattering.  All I could see from the window was a confusion of feathers and very large wings under the patio bench.  Since the feathers appeared to belong to a hawk, I put on my raincoat and gloves (even though the temperature was hovering around 90 degrees), as I have a deep respect for the talons and beak of even an injured hawk.  Thus protected (probably inadequately), I went out and pulled one of the potted tomato plants away from the bench, hoping this would help the bird escape its confines, and then backed away.

Our good neighbors, working on the house across the street, saw the hubbub, and came over.  By this time the hawk was lying still and was panting open-beaked on the hot concrete.  She (at least we called it “she”) looked for all the world as if she were dying. One person suggested that we shade her with an umbrella, which we did.  And since she seemed unlikely to pose a threat at this point, I removed my raincoat and gloves in order to avoid my own heat stroke.

Meanwhile I had called Alachua County Animal Services, and before long a nice young man who knew much more about hawks than we did, arrived.  By this time, though, the hawk had begun to revive, and after a few minutes of sitting under the umbrella and then on the patio wall, gave a great cry and flew into one of our huge live oaks.  She rested there for a while, and eventually disappeared.

Second hawk
The second hawk arrived quietly (unlike the first one) four days later, early in the morning.  I tried to call Animal Services again, but it was Memorial Day, and the office was closed.

Juvenile hawk on patio wall

This time it was a juvenile.  She sat on the patio wall for a while and observed us.  She moved to the driveway, then to the bushes, and from there flew to the roof.  We were relieved that she had moved to a higher realm, because while the hawk was watching us, a large neighborhood cat was watching the hawk. (However, I do think the cat would have gotten an unpleasant surprise had he actually tried to grab this birdie.)

Anyhow, we were hoping the young hawk had flown home, but after lunch, there she was again, on the edge of the carport and later on the railing of the deck on the other side of the house.  In fact, she hung around most of the day.  We put water out for her on the railing, while she mildly kept an eye on us and on her surroundings, seemingly unafraid.

The next day she was gone.

Now let me tell you something strange. The first hawk – the injured one who eventually flew away – clattered onto the patio at a time when a friend had recently moved into hospice to die.  The second hawk – the young one who hung around all day – came without disturbance the day after our friend had peacefully died.

I don’t believe that the dead – or the dying – come to us literally in the form of animals. But this I do believe:

• That everyday life sometimes works in symbols, and that the symbols, if we are paying attention, can at times reveal to us a truth deeper than what our senses can perceive.
• That there is a mysterious communion among God’s holy creatures, living and dead, human or not.  (See “With a Little Help from My Friends” for a quote from Saint Ignatius of Loyola.  See also Romans 8:18-23 for an example of the relationship between humanity and the rest of creation.)

Were the hawks showing us something about our friend, first dying, then reborn in the peace of God?  Or were they just hawks who, without any significance, blundered into our yard? Who can say for sure?  What we can say is that these wild creatures brought consolation and delight in a time of sadness.

- – - – - – - – - -

Is it by your wisdom that the hawk soars,
and spreads its wings towards the south?
(From God’s words to Job, 39:26)

We might add another to the list this Advent season: a time for exhorting and a time for comforting.

As for the first, we might think of exhorting the troops to action and other urgings to scary or wearisome action. As for comforting — how we do need to be comforted and consoled!

But what if they were related—the comfort and the exhortation?

One of the beautiful Advent readings is taken from Isaiah 40, which begins, “Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God.”

These words are spoken for a people in exile.  But what is this consolation? The exile is nearly over, they (and we) hear.  Your iniquities are pardoned. God is coming and “will feed his flock like a shepherd.”

When we turn to the New Testament, we hear Jesus also assure us of comfort.  In the Gospel of John he says that he will not leave us orphaned, but will send “another Comforter” (often translated “another Advocate”), indicating that although the Comforter to whom his followers are accustomed (that is, Jesus himself) will soon no longer be visibly present, they will continue to have the divine comfort of the Holy Spirit.

The Greek word used for Comforter is Paraklete, Παράκλητος.

But curiously enough the related word that is often used to mean “comfort” or “encouragement” in the New Testament — παράκλησις, paraklesis — can also mean “exhortation.”

Are they both the same? How can this be?

First, we are important enough to God that it matters how we are doing, whether we are heartened or discouraged: hence the encouragement and the comfort.

We are important enough to God that it matters how we live and how we love. Hence the exhortation.

We are important enough — small, weak, sinful creatures that we are — that God is willing to go to the greatest lengths to find us, console us, and exhort us.

God is merciful. When we fail, as we certainly will, God says, “Be consoled, be comforted, I am coming with might; I will gather you like a lamb in my arms and carry you home rejoicing.” (See Isaiah 40 and Luke 15:1-7.)

But comfort is not only for ourselves. So the comfort we receive is to share with others — hence the exhortation both to proclamation and to action. “Comfort my people.” For as we see in 2 Corinthians, the comfort brings with it its own exhortation.

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,
the Father of mercies and God of all comfort,
who comforts us in all our affliction,
so that we may be able to comfort those
who are in any affliction,
with the comfort with which
we ourselves are comforted by God.
For as we share abundantly in Christ’s sufferings,
so through Christ we share abundantly in comfort too.

2 Corinthians 1:3-5 (RSV)

“Comfort ye, co – - mmm – fo – orrrt ye – - – my pe-eo-ple . . .”

The sudden shift from academic exegesis to musical cry was nothing if not startling, but it was beautiful. Not many people could have pulled it off successfully.

During Advent I remember the singing professor as I ponder the passage from Isaiah which begins the chapters called the “Book of Consolation.”

Comfort, O comfort my people,
says your God.
Speak tenderly to Jerusalem,
and cry to her
that her warfare is ended,
that her iniquity is pardoned . . .
(Isaiah 40:1-2a)

These lines refer to the end of the Babylonian exile. God’s people need assurance that the exile is nearly over, and that God is faithful and merciful. Even though they were written with a particular historical situation in mind, these words speak also to each of us. Is there any one of us who doesn’t need comfort? Is there any one of us who doesn’t need to hear a word of forgiveness? This is a God who cares about us, who says, “Speak tenderly,” or “Speak to the heart.” God wants to comfort us. God says to us over and over, “I’m not an adversary — I’m on your side. You don’t need to be in exile any longer. Come home to me. Let me comfort you. ”

But to whom is God speaking? Who is supposed to be the agent of God’s comforting? Heavenly beings? The prophet? Yes, but also ourselves. We are called to give comfort, as well as to receive it — to be the one speaking to the heart of God’s people, proclaiming the forgiveness of sins and the end of exile through Emmanuel, God-with-us.

One day he asked Sister Elizabeth, “Am I going to get better?”

She doesn’t know where the answer came from, but she found herself saying, “Yes, you are going to get better — if not here, then in heaven.”

The next day when she went into his room, she found him still in pain, but totally at peace. “I’m glad I’m going to get better,” he said. “It doesn’t matter where — here or in heaven.” A few days later he died.

In The Impact of God, (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1995), Iain Matthew reflects on the experience of darkness as described by Saint John of the Cross. Matthew says that although not all pain is a healing darkness — that “night more lovely than the dawn” where God works to bring us to union with Christ — it is still true that any suffering can become this blessed night.

One of the qualities of this grace-filled night is that there is an “inflow of God”:

“The admission that we cannot heal ourselves, while it may take some tension out of the air, fails of itself to hold out hope. What makes ‘night’ blessed is the added assurance that the one who can heal does intend to heal. Where God finds space, he enters….That is what makes night something other than disastrous.”

“The one who can heal does intend to heal.”

Whether our suffering is physical or on some other level, God wants to heal us. What matters most in the long run, may not be whether the medical or psychic “cure” takes place now or later. To accept God’s loving desire to enter into our pain, to allow in ourselves the space where God can enter, to respond with faith to the “inflow of God” — this may in itself be a deeper healing than any cure would be.

Sister Elizabeth’s patient placed his trust in the healing intention of God, and his darkness became a blessed night filled with peace as it led him to that ultimate healing of heaven.

Where can I go from your spirit?
Or where can I flee from your presence?
If I ascend to heaven, you are there;
if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.

If I take the wings of the morning
and settle at the farthest limits of the sea,
even there your hand shall lead me,
and your right hand shall hold me fast.

If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me,
and the light around me become night,”
even the darkness is not dark to you;
the night is as bright as the day,
for darkness is as light to you.
(Psalm 139:7-12)

Sister Elizabeth and I were the only ones home and she had already gone to bed, but since this seemed like an event worthy of being roused, I ran upstairs to get her — all the time hoping the baby was not injured and wondering what in the world I would do with a wounded baby raccoon in the middle of the night.

By the time we returned, Mama Raccoon had arrived, and they both looked back at us suspiciously as she led Baby away.

I returned to my reading only to hear, a few minutes later, another crash — which this time sounded like a softer landing in the bushes — followed by more pitiful chittering. Evidently Baby was not having a good night. I lifted my eyes only briefly from my book, however, figuring that Mama could be trusted to handle the situation.

God, our heavenly parent, is even more concerned about us than Mama Raccoon was about her baby. Our cries and complaints never fall on deaf ears. God lifts us up after we fall, and keeps coming back to find us time and time again.

As a mother comforts her child,
so I will comfort you…
(Isaiah 66:13)