The House that Wren Built – Part IV


I thought I was done writing about the mother wren but today’s events may be the final “chapter.” It is Good Friday and it is no surprise that the theme of death is very present for many as the journey through Holy Week brings us to today when the crucifixion of Jesus is heavily in the hearts and minds of millions. This is part of my journey too yet it is oddly enough amplified metaphorically on a different level with the baby wren’s death right on my doorstep.

Yesterday I wondered how many baby wrens there were and today I found out. I left the house around noon and noticed an odd smell as I locked the door. I haven’t seen any sign of the mother wren nor have I heard any more baby bird chirps coming from the nest. Yet I have been reluctant to mess with the nest to find out because I didn’t want to keep the mother wren from returning. I did take a closer peek before heading to a Good Friday service and thought the nest was empty. I wrongly concluded the odor must have been from the baby bird I buried yesterday.

I came home several hours later and the odor was by now very strong, the smell of death. I got even closer to the nest and clearly the odor was indeed coming from inside of it. I asked Pedro to solve this mystery because I didn’t think I could stomach any more. Yet I had to see what happened. He took the nest to the yard and gently pulled it out of the Nautilus Shell. With a few twigs he pulled the nest apart and there in the midst of a well constructed home were two more lifeless baby birds. I couldn’t believe it.  We looked for signs of trauma on their tiny bodies but saw nothing.

I don’t know what happened to them and now I wonder about the mother wren.  What was her fate? Did she abandon these babies? I think the mystery will never be solved. I am not a coroner or even close to an ornithologist. I just see a sweet, hopeful story that has ended badly. A mother bird has to let go of her three babies and I don’t feel like extrapolating meaning at the moment. Instead I gently moved the dead baby birds with a garden shovel near the statue of St. Francis and buried them with their sibling. The open hands with two birds on it at the feet of St. Francis has become their tombstone. They rest beneath the statue of the open hands.  “Lord, have mercy.” This is the only prayer I have today.

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