On a spring afternoon, a newborn bird fell to the ground.

Today’s story is from Melanie Swiercinski.

Melanie and her dad, John.
Ocean Beach, San Francisco (2011)

“Dad help, please hurry,” I cried. Like a shot, he bolted from the house. I was stretched out on the ground.

The newborn bird looked like a misshapen worm. Eyes sealed. His translucent flesh pale pink, all puckered and worn. Jagged pieces of shell lay spread in the grass. His mom surely figured him dead.

As soon as I called, Dad ran out and dove to the ground. He hurt like I hurt. He felt what I felt. He became me.  

Father knew what to do. A shoebox carefully lined with newspaper, bottom softened with cloth. Breadcrumbs and sugar dissolved in warm water. That heating pad on low to keep him peaceful and warm. Nourished with an eye-dropper, one drop at a time.

A bird house built in the back yard, construction supervised by my smart dad. Weeks passed. A month. His feathers came in. My baby grew up. Despite the long odds, my little guy lived.

Then Dad broke the news. “Teach him to fly,” Dad gently said.

My little bird felt the fear I had. He balanced so carefully on top of Dad’s hand. Dad worked with my bird. Then I did, too. My hand I let fall—just a foot, perhaps a bit more.

He started to get it—thrusting out wings with each drop. Hovering for seconds, then returning to perch. Soon he flitted around on our porch. Then he flew into the yard. At times, he came back to sit in my hand. Then one day, no more.

What did I learn from my dad and one tiny bird?

When babies grow up, we’ve got to let go.

If we don’t, it’s selfish. We hold them back to protect us. But there is something greater, something much more.

The day I found that bird dying and hurt? Dad jumped into my heart. He climbed into my soul. He became me.