Sharon When She Visits
Yesterday I wrote of my mother’s birthday. When I arrived home from work,I had an email awaiting me from my sister. She told me that a hummingbird flew up to her when she was puttering around outside her house. This was notable because she apparently never sees hummingbirds where she lives, and also for another reason.
Our mother was a great admirer of hummingbirds, and always kept feeders for them outside her little house. One in particular returned for several years. She named him Little Bill, and she delighted to see him perch on a planter outside her kitchen window, bobbing his head in a sort of dance, side-to-side, and calling to her in his squeaky trill when she went outside, zipping around her as she worked in her garden.
My sister told me that, given the fact that she never sees hummingbirds and that this one appeared on what would have been Mother’s 98th birthday, she chose to believe that the bird’s visit was Mother’s way of saying hello to her.
This morning when I was preparing to leave for work, I went outside and put some things in the car. Near the house is a large Rose of Sharon bush. We planted this bush years ago for sentimental reasons. When I was a boy, the old-fashioned wire fence next to our house was tangled with two or three Rose of Sharons. I used to pluck the blossoms in the summertime because I thought they looked as if someone had spilled cherry Kool-Aid inside the flowers. Mother would scold me for defacing one of her favorite plants. I thought of those days this morning while looking at the bush.
And at that moment a hummingbird came to me.
It was a female, subdued in color, but very vocal. She squeaked and squeaked, circling my head, and then settled onto a bare branch in the middle of the Rose of Sharon. I spoke to her, and she moved her head in the side-to-side dance just as Little Bill used to do for Mother. For a long moment, I stood and watched her, talking in a soft voice to the little creature. She was clearly watching me, clearly listening to me. Finally, the pull of punctuality made me leave her. When I got into my car, she was still sitting in the Rose of Sharon, still watching me. On my way down the driveway, I named her Sharon.
My sister deliberately chose to believe that her hummingbird was a greeting from Mother. I have made a conscious choice to believe that Sharon, too, was a messenger from that wizened little lady.
I hope Sharon is there when I get home. You can believe that I will be looking for her, calling to her. It’s a wondrous thing to realize that a beautiful little creature is aware of you and attempting to communicate with you. Perhaps this is how God feels when children lift their halting prayers to him from their bedrooms and yards and playgrounds and classrooms. Perhaps the movement of their bowing heads and the trill of their high-pitched words makes Him smile and stare in delight. Perhaps He can even wonder at ones such as us.
I like to think so.
~ S.K. Orr