Day 2: Bluebird of Happiness

The bluebird couple that return to our yard every year bring me joy. I know, I know: the bluebird of happiness. But it's true that seeing them brings me a rush of joy. Sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of that brilliant blue as the male dives from a tree onto the lawn; sometimes I see the male and female sitting near one another on posts. The birds are lovely in their dedication to their family, their continuity in returning to our yard year after year, and of course they are lovely in color.

A friend of mine said that having bluebirds raise their young in your yard is the ultimate compliment to a gardener. I cannot take the credit. The bluebird couple has been returning to our yard since the previous owner, a woman named Gloria whom we knew from church, lived in this house. In fact, every year I wait, hardly daring to hope, for the bluebirds to return despite the non-ideal state of our yard. They arrive early, while it's still cold and wintery, and I worry that the bluebird house is worse for the wear of another year of neglect. I kick myself for all those cold and empty months when I could have stopped by the birdhouse to check its condition. I wonder if I should check it now or stay away to avoid worrying them about human intruders. Then the bluebirds seem to disappear for weeks. I am convinced they have finally given up on us and our less-than-perfect conditions. The birdhouse was probably stuffed with the messy sticks of a house wren, used to fool other birds into thinking a house is occupied. But spring bursts into the neighborhood and, with it, our bluebirds reappear. They sit on tree branches or posts and then suddenly swoop to the ground for insect food. Their orange chests and blue bodies are as striking and delightful as the male cardinal's bold red, which brought me joy all winter long.

Our first summer in the house was the summer we watched in awe as the bluebirds -- now OUR bluebirds! -- raised 3 sweet nestlings 50 feet from our kitchen window. That was the summer I fell in love with them. I was pregnant with my second child, and extra-susceptible to nesting and babies and such.

The next summer was a messy one with construction between our former kitchen window and the bluebird house. I was busy with my own nestlings -- a nursing baby and a busy toddler -- and with the building on our nest. My view was obstructed by an excavator and then the raising of a new kitchen and family room. How miraculous that the bluebirds returned despite the noise and activity -- the most unpeaceful of settings for their little family. Nail guns, pounding hammers, power saws, shouting, even one workman who loved to sing random bits of songs at a volume that matched his power tools. He was our birdsong that crazy summer, since anything more delicate was drowned out.

I awaited the next bluebird season eagerly: now I could sit 20 feet closer and watch the birdhouse from an enormous picture window in my new family room. I had a front row seat! The birds didn't disappoint: our bluebirds returned to their house and their activity bespoke eggs and then nestlings.

However, tragedy struck: one afternoon as I cautiously weeded the little flowerbed surrounding the bluebird house, I found three dead little baby birds. Their throats were slit. It was grotesque, horrifying. It made me feel nauseous for days. A house wren, a mini-bird with a sweet trill but murderous jealousy, had killed the baby birds to limit competition for resources in our yard. Nature is not all loveliness but is fallen and made ill with sin. The bluebirds disappeared, and the house wren filled the nest box with coarse sticks to prevent further competition.

 I didn't expect the bluebirds to return after that. Our yard was not a safe nesting ground anymore. But there they were the next spring, just as before. I was reminded of hope and grace, how God never gives up on us, no matter how grotesque and horrifying our sin. I as like a third bluebird parent, hovering anxiously near our back window, unsure how to combat mini-murderers.

I saw it happen. I saw the house wren take over and chase away the bluebirds. I ran out again and again to shoo it away, but there was nothing I could do. In the course of one day, all that remained were beautiful eggs with gashing holes poked in each, bluebird lives snuffed out. The house wren moved into the bluebird house and raised some darling-but-murderous progeny, and there was nothing I could do. House wrens, like other native songbirds, are protected by law, as are their eggs.

That winter, I replaced the bluebird house. It had grown shabby, and there was already a good chance we wouldn't see bluebirds the next year. We did see them though. They appeared early, as always but did not nest in our box. I would see flashes of them in the field behind the house. I mournfully wondered whose yard they had adopted in place of ours.

This year, my husband fixed up and erected a purple martin house that my grandfather built many years ago. I had stood for years in my parents' yard, filled with birds but never purple martins. Spring came and I saw the bluebirds again in our yard and sitting on the bluebird house. For two days, it seemed as if they had moved in. They were busy going in and out. But then they disappeared and a chickadee moved in. Within 3 days, I saw three delicate babies. I have no idea how they arrived so quickly! I was thrilled for the chickadee but still missed our bluebirds nesting nearby. Then I began to see them often. They still stood on our tree branches and swooped into the lawn. It took me several weeks to realize it, but they had nested in our newly-remodeled purple martin house. How wonderful -- a birdhouse passed down through my family now a blessing to theirs. Joy!