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An Empty Nest Is For The Birds
By Sharyl Calhoun, Fri Dec 9th
An Empty Nest is For the Birds by S. M. Calhoun
It was just a simple child’s book, its total vocabularyconsisting of only five words. Yet, as I listened to a studentread it on this particular day, I felt like weeping! What waswrong with me? The story was about a young bird getting booted from the nestand gaining independence. As a mother, I had just begun toexperience the reality of an "empty nest." While the mother bird was cheerfully kicking her youngsters out,however, I had been holding onto mine for dear life! When thetime came for me to relinquish my hold on them, I thought I hadhandled it very well. But when this little bird book threatenedto drown me in tears, I knew it was time for me to come to gripswith this unwelcome change. I am sure that neither the author nor the illustrator everdreamed that their simple words and drawings would evoke suchstrong feelings from a reader! It was just the timing in mylife—the emptying of my own nest. On the first page, a mama birdwas literally kicking her fledgling out of the nest! The poor little creature plummeted out of the tree and felltoward the ground. He frantically flapped his wings up and down.It was the only movement he knew. He was in luck! The frenziedflapping halted his downward plunge and the wings stopped hisfall. The whole event had been observed by an enemy—a feline who wasup to no good. She sneaked in for a closer look. Still a novicein flight science, the baby bird breathed a sigh of relief.Disaster, for the moment, had been averted. He rested his achingwings a moment. Big mistake! The downward plunge began anew—andthis time, the hungry cat was waiting below, ready to takeadvantage of the little bird’s ignorance. Perhaps he sensed the new threat to his well being, for onceagain, he beat his wings anxiously against the invisible air. Atthe last moment, just as he came within an inch of thatoutstretched claw, his life was saved. His panicked flightcarried him upward toward the nest—and his heartless mother! On this particular day, I was infuriated by the mother robin inthe book; she did nothing but watch her innocent child’sperilous adventure. On this particular day, eyes hot with unshedtears, I was in no mood for reading about the hazards of birdlife. In my mind, they too closely paralleled the dangers mychildren would be facing. What kind of a mother is she? I thought, indignantly. Why is shenot flying alongside her baby, lending a supportive wing—orstrapping him into a parachute? Why has she not offered ademonstration in navigation, and warnings about Newton’s law orthe cat’s paw before shoving him out into the world? Why is shenot hopping up and down in a frenzy, screeching, "You’re indanger, Son! Flap harder!" And, finally, why isn’t that motherwaging an all-out war against the mortal enemy who is droolingfor an opportunity to devour her child? Then the analogy hit me squarely in the heart, leaving megasping for breath. Detachment. . . then anger . . . tearfulness. . . devastation . . . this was in its rawest form! Sothat’s all there is to it? I asked myself. I spend 18 yearsdeeply involved in the lives of my children and suddenly,without warning, it’s over? Like the excruciating amputation ofan arm—or the painful separation of death or divorce? Suddenly, in the course of a day, life swings from one set ofextremes to another. One day there is noise—boisterous laughter,angry arguments, constant conversation, water splashing in theshower, toilets flushing and loud ka-thumping music. Then . . .there is utter stillness—broken only by the cat crunching herKit’n Kaboodles. From busy-ness to aimlessness. From comfortable companionship toloneliness. From the peaceful sleep of knowing that everyone istucked safely into bed, to feeling the hollowness—the arrestedbreathing—of an empty house. From worries about the kids gettingsafely across our busy street, to the sheer helplessness ofbeing separated by 500 miles of interstate. How was I to respond to this unwelcome upheaval that wassupposed to be the normal way of things? Surely I wasn’texpected to stand aloof and pretend not to notice as life shovedme, unwillingly, into the next phase. Was I to pretend that myentire being hadn’t been focused on nurturing, loving, andprotecting my children all these years? Was I, like the mother robin, supposed to simply say, "You’re anadult, now. Go start a family of your own!" (Boot!) I don’tthink so! In the past, I had thoughtlessly accepted the analogy of the"empty nest" to that of children leaving home. It was a tidy wayfor psychologists to view life in stages—cramming every aspectof life into an orderly filing system of human development. Butat this point in my life, I rebelled at those experts who wouldnod with knowing boredom at my predicament, toss the filecontaining my current crisis into the drawer marked "Empty NestSyndrome" and, so casually, compare my situation to that of abird! Conducting an amateur counseling session with myself, I had toacknowledge the fact that I was grieving the end of family lifeas I had known it.
I didn’t want my kids to grow up, leave home,and become independent! Well, SOMEday, sure. But not yet! Icried and patted my shoulder sympathetically in an attempt tocome to grips with this new phase of my life. Stepping back to take a more objective look at our yearstogether, it was humbling to acknowledge all of the mistakes myhusband and I had made along the path of parenting. Ours was nota soft, downy nest. It was hurriedly and crudely built, withmore than its share of thorns. Guilt warred with excuses as my thoughts continued down thispainful path. What imperfect parents we had been! How many timeshad I caused my children to flinch at an unreasonabletongue-lashing from my lips? Yet, how many times did I walk awayfrom their tears to cry into my own pillow, pleading for God tosoothe the hurts we had inflicted? And unlike the mama bird in the story, hadn’t I fanaticallyprotected my children and loved them with a passion? Knowingfrom experience the dangers that lay in wait for them . . .knowing there were hidden enemies just waiting to find themunprotected and vulnerable to attack, I had introduced them toour Protector. So, now, why was my jaw gaping open in amazementto see God standing in the shadows of our past, gazing lovinglyat our turbulent family life . . . unobtrusive, unobserved,often touching us in an attempt to draw our attention toHimself? Angrily, I shook Him off, recalling each painful event that mychildren had endured at the hands of a teacher, a coach, or ayouth leader. How many times were their talents ignored, passedover or shredded as they tried to serve Him? How many times didI cry out to God, begging Him to intervene so that their spiritswould not be crushed? Where was He, then? Taking a deep breath, I removed myself from the role as motherfor a moment. Trying to view my children as the young adultsthey had become, I searched for the festering wounds I knew Iwould find in their character---scars inflicted by myself and bythe world’s neglect. Instead, I found gentleness, compassion,patience, determination, confidence, self-control, and an innerstrength! I was in awe, recognizing God’s handiwork in the chiseling,shaping and sanding of my children’s character! They had longsince cast aside those hurtful experiences that still hauntedme. As young adults, they were pushing onward with integrity,eagerly anticipating what God had in store for their lives. Hadn’t this been our goal while our kids were still toddlingaround, grasping onto furniture to keep from falling . . . toraise them to be young men and women dependent solely upon God?And despite our interference, it had happened! "Get a grip," I told myself. "You can survive this separation.That’s what life is all about. Get used to it!" My husband sawmy tears each night, and he knew the homesickness for my kidswouldn’t recede without some special care. He made somesuggestions that were heaven-sent. First, he suggested that our phone budget be adjusted to includea weekly, 20-minute phone call to each of our kids (sure, we hade-mail, but there’s something about actually hearing theirvoices. . .). And for my peace of mind, we allowed them freedomto call home if depression or any other emotional catastrophehit them. Then my husband suggested that we set aside several longweekends on our calendar (in big, red letters) to visit thekids. I found that going without a hug for 2 ½ months was mylimit. Ironically, by experiencing the 500-mile trek at itsworst (bumper-to-bumper traffic, overheated cars in a summertraffic jam, and icy mountain interstates), my fears of theunknown were lessened! I could visualize my kids driving homeand predict where there were at any given moment. We also found that 2 ½ months of separation changed theirattitude toward us. . . they were actually excited to see us!Whenever we visited them, they included us in excursions withtheir friends. We went to their college classes, drove 10 milesto their favorite shopping haunts and restaurants, and got toknow their friends. We experienced their famous "walking bridge"in the heart of Chattanooga. We waded in my son’s favoritemountain creek. We perched atop the windy heights of LookoutMountain and gazed down at the glowing autumn colors. I feltGod’s peace as we shared the beauty of His creation. I cried as we left the mountains and our hearts behind, but thetears were gentler, now. "How can I continue to grieve," I askedmyself, "knowing that my kids are in God’s will, 500 miles fromhome?" From above, an invisible Protector continues to smooth outimperfections as He watches our relationship transform from thatof mother and child, to a firm, forever friendship. What ablessing! What an honor! As the sun sets in the evening sky, we see a young bird soaringconfidently back to his nest. With a sense of exhilaration, heshouts to his watching mother, "I can fly!" He has been givenhis independence—and he has survived. Maybe there is somethingto this "empty nest" thing, after all. (end) If your nest is too quiet, consider sharing your backyard orgarden with a family of feathered tenants. You'll findbirdhouses, birdbaths, garden plaques and more atwww.poshbungalow.com. About the author:None
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