Chickadee
Approaching God Boldly
Below-zero temperatures made for magical mornings where I grew up. I would wake up to intricate, prehistoric-looking patterns on my frosted bedroom windows. Overnight, the freezing weather had created wondrous crystalline ferns and scrolls over the glass. They crawled and meandered across the windowpanes, each window with its own eerie design. The pale, weak winter sun barely penetrated the exotic icy artwork.
Padding downstairs to breakfast, I could smell the lingering woodsmoke from last night's fire. In the kitchen, my mother would have hot cereal sprinkled with brown sugar waiting to fortify me for the trek to the school-bus stop. While eating my breakfast I would look out the kitchen window and see our backyard, so different from the lush, humid green of summer, now a landscape of barren trees with ice-coated fingers clawing into the dim gray skies. Everything was blanketed with snow. The picnic table was buried. The birdbath was entombed. The lilac bushes were bent over, buckling under the weight of the snow. There was a loud silence to the cold. Nothing moved; the icy air seemed to sap the energy from every living thing. Even the dog wouldn't go outside, it was so frigid. He'd whine to go out and then after stepping onto the porch, tuck his tail and whine to not go out. It was twenty below zero, after all.
Once breakfast was over, my mother would faithfully trudge through the snow to our birdfeeder. She'd fill up the feeder and then sprinkle some birdseed on the ground near her statue of St. Francis of Assisi. The first bird to the feeder would inevitably be the brave little black-capped chickadee. In fact, my mother swears that sometimes it seemed as if the chickadee was sitting nearby scolding her, "Hurry up! I've been out here waiting all morning for you!"
I think the chickadee is, in a word, adorable. Whether they are the black-capped, chestnut-backed, or mountain chickadees, they all have cute little black caps–almost like berets–on top of their heads. They are about the size of a goldfinch (five inches) and weigh only one third of an ounce–or as one person noted, "About as much as a handful of paper clips." Their call is easily identifiable. They seem to be saying their name: chickadee-dee-dee-dee. Or a shorter version, feee-bee, feee-beee. But what endears the chickadee to me and many others is that the chickadee has got the biggest heart of all the songbirds, despite its tiny size.
Ralph Waldo Emerson called the chickadee a "scrap of valor" for its fearlessness and ability to endure frigid winters. The chickadee is able to fluff up his feathers to make an inch-thick furry coat that provides warmth. Standing outside in twenty-below weather, the difference in temperature between his body and the outside air is 128 degrees. But unlike redpolls and other small birds that can endure cold winters, the chickadee does not have a crop, an internal food storage bag. Instead, the chickadee must eat constantly to keep up his fat reserves and strength. On short winter days when there aren't many hours of sunlight, he's got a lot of work to do.
Our "scrap of valor" needs to consume enough calories every day to add 10 percent to his body weight, which he then burns overnight. This is like a 140-pound person eating enough to weigh 154 by day's end (49,000 calories) and then expending that energy overnight for survival so he faces the morning at 140 again. This is where we come in. We can help the chickadee face harsh weather and short days by providing suet, fat and birdseed at our feeders.
The chickadee's ability to survive cold is admirable, but what charms most people is his attitude. The Yiddish equivalent would be chutzpah. Tom Brown, who runs a tracker school in New Jersey, says this about the chickadee in his book The Tracker: "We learned to be patient observers like the owl. We learned cleverness from the crow, and courage from the jay, who will attack an owl ten times its size to drive it off its territory. But above all of them ranked the chickadee because of its indomitable spirit."
I came across several Web sites where people told stories about the bravery of the chickadee in their backyards. One told how a chickadee tormented and thwarted a squirrel from entering its territory. Another related how a flock of songbirds at his feeders scattered at the sight of a northern shrike (predator bird), but the chickadee led him on a merry chase and outwitted him by flying straight toward a glass storm door and veering off at the last minute. Caught by surprise and unable at that speed to make such a quick turn, the shrike smashed into the door and was unconscious for several minutes. The chickadee perched on a nearby branch and seemed to giggle at his own cleverness and bravery.
What I find most amazing about the chickadee is that of all the songbirds that visit our feeders, he is the one most likely to be taught to feed out of our hand. In many of my birding books I have come across people's experiences with hand-feeding chickadees in their backyards.
Unlike the brave chickadee, I was pretty much a fraidy cat growing up. Despite the fact I was always taller than everyone else and gregarious in nature, I was insecure and shy. When the giant Easter bunny handed out chocolate rabbits at the restaurant where we had brunch, I was too terrified to approach. All the other kids gleefully went forward. I hung back. "Go on!" my mother said impatiently. "There's nothing to be afraid of." The Easter bunny was as tall as my mother and had an oversized head. I suspected that there was a person in there, looking out through the bunny's mouth, which was in a permanent grin. Worst of all, the giant bunny was eerily quiet. He never said a word. I wanted a chocolate rabbit, but not enough to brave the mute giant in front of me. My fear had a price. I went home without a chocolate rabbit.
When I lost a tooth, I was terrified of the tooth fairy. "But what if I wake up when he comes," I whined to my older brother, "and he's big and ugly and scary looking?!" I imagined that the tooth fairy might look something like a troll, not Tinker Bell. My brother couldn't believe he was related to anyone as gullible and chicken as I was. "Don't be so stupid," he said. "The tooth fairy is just Mom and Dad." Instead of feeling disappointment that a charming childhood myth had been snatched from me, I remember a distinct feeling of relief and gratitude that I didn't have to face the unknown.
At the age of twelve I was afraid to take the bus by myself downtown long after my friends were doing it. I was afraid to kiss boys in high school long after my friends were doing it. And I was afraid to enter into an intimate, personal relationship with the God of the universe, even though I longed to do it.
A cousin sent me a book around my twelfth birthday about Joni Eareckson. Joni was a typical teenager who loved to ride horses and swim. Tragically, she dove into shallow water, broke her neck, and became a quadriplegic. I think my relative meant to encourage me to leave behind the forms of religion I dutifully engaged in on Sunday mornings and grow into a more personal and intimate dialogue with God. I knew this was what I wanted. But Joni had prayed to know God more personally and follow the teachings of Christ, then shortly thereafter, she had her tragic accident. Instead of seeing the book for what it was–a description of how God can work good and positive things even out of tragic circumstances–to me the book said, Trust this guy and you're toast!
So I coasted for a few years, longing to know and be more intimately known by this incredible Creator of heaven and earth and yet terrified to give Him full access to my life. I knew I wanted to move beyond the cold, liturgical religion I was brought up with. I agreed with its historical facts but it didn't influence my daily life. I knew I wanted a relationship where I felt forgiven, accepted, and could pray and see answers to those prayers. But I was afraid. I was afraid that the price was too high.
I feared God would want me to be a missionary in some disease-ridden steamy climate where no one was interested. I feared God would cripple me as Joni had been crippled. Logically, this didn't make any sense, that the One who loves me more than any other heart on this earth or in heaven would purposely seek to do me harm. But at least, I reasoned, He probably wasn't interested in my definition of a fun life. So I continued on for a few more years, pursuing my definition of fun. After a while, I decided that fun sometimes turned out to mean entrapment, shame, wasting my talents, and going nowhere fast. I wanted to look back over my life and feel that it had meant something, it had been worthwhile, I had achieved something significant. Despite my successful athletic endeavors, I knew that wasn't happening. So one winter day, not long before Christmas, I said, "Okay, I am scared of this but I'm going to do it anyway. You can have all of me, Jesus. Come into my heart and take control of my life."
When I look back on that moment of decision now, I laugh. Not because I wasn't genuine or that a monumental shift in my spiritual life didn't occur, but because I am stunned at what that decision entailed. I guess it was my unspoken belief that God would pretty much pave the way for me after that. A college evangelist once told me, "God has a wonderful plan for your life." I took that to mean I would have quick and definite answers to my prayers, I would see situations improve, and I'd probably see my grades move up a notch. Those things did occur sometimes, but they are not the things that caused me to grow in love or wisdom. Trusting Him when life was painful, unfair, and didn't make sense, choosing to obey His Word when it wasn't convenient, and working out my faith with "fear and trembling" (Philippians 2:12) were the messy process that still goes on to this day. It's rarely easy, orderly, or pretty, but the rewards are worth it.
I understand why people are reticent and even fearful to talk to God face-to-face. He's the Big Man upstairs, the guy who holds all the puppet strings. He's the Wizard of Oz, Superman, and all supreme authority figures rolled into one. If we didn't have a particularly close relationship with our father or other authority figures growing up, the idea of getting close to Mr. Big is even more daunting. If God is like our earthly examples, then there is the fear of being hurt, suffering disappointment, or abuse. Trust Him with my hopes, dreams, and heart? Yikes.
Those of us who were raised in organized religion heard, "Fear God and keep His commandments." Repeatedly we are told to fear God, and we do. We're also aware of our pettiness and multitude of sins, both what we've done and those things we've left undone. He is the perfect and holy Creator of the heavens and the earth. We are prone to wander, full of selfish and sinful desires, and only tend to talk to Him when we're in trouble. It's no wonder we are hesitant to approach Him. But He says He longs for us to do so.
In Isaiah it is recorded, " `Come now, let us reason together,' says the Lord. `Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be white as snow; though they are red as crimson, they shall be like wool' " (1:18). And in Jeremiah God promises He will listen to us. "Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you" (29:12). He delights in hearing from us. In fact, God's desire for relationship with us is what the Bible is all about. He's running after us, welcoming us home in the prodigal son story. In the book of Hosea, He's weeping over our leaving Him for other things and people.
I've always loved the illustration of how Christianity is different from all other religions. On a piece of paper, draw two horizontal parallel lines a few inches apart. One represents heaven, where God is. One represents earth, where we are. Draw a stick figure of a person, standing on earth. In all other religions, man is standing on earth, stretching, reaching, longing to draw closer to heavenly things, toward perfection. In Christianity, God stretches down (draw a cross that reaches from heaven to earth) and reaches out to us.
Instead of reaching out to Him directly in response, we try other routes. "Pray to your angel" someone told me the other day. The internet and TV is full of ads for tarot readings. Others try to use biblical figures and people long dead as go-betweens. I think this is understandable but misguided. Why talk to an intermediary when the king has told you to come directly to him? God has told us specifically that we are to turn nowhere else but to Him.
“For there is one God and one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus.”
And in the book of Acts, "Salvation is found in no one else, for there is no other name under heaven given to men by which we must be saved" (Acts 4:12). Nowhere in the Bible do you see God condoning or encouraging us to pray to, petition, or praise anyone else. He also says we should come to Him with boldness and confidence.
We can have confidence in approaching God!
We're told in the book of Hebrews that we can be bold in drawing near to God: "Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need" (Hebrews 4:16).
We can be as brave and bold as the chickadee when we approach God because we have the confidence of His love. He tells us, "I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with loving-kindness" (Jeremiah 31:3).
“Whoever comes to me I will never drive away”
And he promised to receive us: "Whoever comes to me I will never drive away" (John 6:37). Clearly, we can learn from the chutzpah of the black-capped chickadee. God wants us to draw near. He will not turn us back, and we can expect good things from His hand.
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