Bluebird lessons

When a pair of Eastern bluebirds chose our nest box for their second clutch of eggs this year, I was at once happy and apprehensive.

What if she laid her little blue eggs only to have the house wrens in the neighbor’s yard destroy them? That’s what happened to the second clutch of eggs we had last year in Virginia Beach.

What if the house sparrows that had scared off the first pair that looked at this nest box attacked this new pair or their babies? Could my heart stand another failed brood?

What if? I’ve always been good at conjuring up what if’s.

While I spent much of the month of June worrying, the female bluebird built her nest in what seemed like record time. I checked inside the nest box and there it was. A neat little cup-shaped nest made of pine straw. She was ready. Whether I was ready or not, it was go time.

I took down the seed feeder nearest the nest box. I put a simple resin birdbath nearby, kept it clean and filled it with water from our cooler. (Yeah, our bluebirds get the good water, not the well water.)

Then I watched. And obsessed. This clutch of eggs was being laid and incubated right at the absolute low point of my elder care journey with my mom. I was stuck in the house, dealing with the indignities of growing old and what looked like end-of-life issues. These bluebirds and their eggs became my hope. My only hope. For creation. For life. For newness. They had to make it. They just had to.

When Mama and Papa began feeding their newly hatched brood, I breathed a small sigh of relief because at least the house wrens had been too busy looking after their own young to bother with these bluebird eggs.

But there was still the threat of a house sparrow or a snake or the two feral cats that prowl the hill where we live. I decided to take down all the bird feeders on the property to reduce the chances of predation as much as possible. This was too important. I watched from the front windows of the house. When I could get a few minutes to myself, I went outside on the old front porch, sat quietly with my back against the siding and prayed for them.

Father God, please watch over our bluebird family.

I pray that they’ll be safe from predators and have a successful brood.

Thank you for giving us this miracle of nature. Amen.

I marveled at how diligently Mama and Papa worked to feed and guard their babies and how rich with insects and caterpillars our hill was. They may not have needed my ineloquent prayer, but I said it anyway.

The third week of July, the nestlings began to appear in the opening of the nest box. Three little bluebirds were in there. My heart filled up, and I babbled to anyone who would listen about the beautiful thing that was looking more and more likely to happen in our front yard.

One morning that week as I was having breakfast in the yard and watching them, a male house sparrow dared to land on the utility wire near the nest box. Papa bluebird was nearby, ready to defend and would have dispatched the non-native predator easily. But something flew hot in me. Oh HELL no. A house sparrow is NOT getting to these babies. Not after all this. I grabbed a chunk of concrete that had come loose from the front porch and hurled it at the sparrow, missing him by several feet, but making enough disturbance to get the job done.

The house sparrow flew away. And I suddenly realized something. I could not control the outcome of this bluebird family’s two-month effort. Only God and nature could. I control nothing.

I realized in that moment that I had done the best I could: provided a good nest box in a sensible location, reduced the risk of predation, supplied water to mitigate against the brutal July drought. That was all I could do. They were not my bluebirds. I was just their landlord—albeit a landlord who loved them.

Throwing that rock with my lousy aim gave me the perspective I needed. It was freeing.

On July 29th, Mama and Papa began lengthening the time between feedings, and the nestlings started jumping over one another to peer out the hole. The pair was encouraging their little ones to fledge.

I predicted it would happen three days later. It turned out to be two days later.

On July 31st, my mom was scheduled for an echocardiogram and chest x-ray. I checked the nest box as soon as I got up and saw lots of activity. The nestlings were now poking their heads out of the box. Mama and Papa were even busier than normal. I watched them as I had morning coffee, then went in to help Mom. In between getting her meds and choosing a shirt for her to wear, I looked out the window and there was one of the babies halfway out of the box. I froze and was lucky enough to see her fly out of the box and into the maple tree beside it. I didn’t have my camera, but I grabbed it and went out to document what I could from there. Mom understood that this was important to me, even with what we had going on that day.

It turned out that was the second bird to fledge. I had missed the first. I could hear the first fledgling calling to the parents from the trees off to the left as the second fledgling called for them from the maple tree, getting her bearings on her first moments outside the safety of the box.

The last baby in the box was timid and reluctant, as I remembered from my first experience watching fledglings. Her cries to Mama and Papa didn’t receive quick replies because she had two needy siblings in the cover outside. For half an hour I watched her wiggle halfway out of the box, then duck back in again. Papa flew in to his guard branch and called her. Still she was afraid to fly out.

Then I saw something I’d read about but never witnessed. One of this pair’s two previous fledglings flew to the nest box to coax the little one out. What I think was a young female peered in to the hole and called to her little sister, practicing what she will likely be doing next year with her own fledglings.

45 minutes after the second bird fledged, and after another assuring call from Papa, the third bluebird baby took flight into the safety of the maple tree.

Mama flew in with a caterpillar and stayed with her last fledgling, then they flew into the woods for cover. For the next 30 days, the parents and the young from their first brood would feed the new fledglings and teach them to survive.

I got one more glimpse of the older siblings as I went in to get Mom ready for her appointment. It made me so happy to see them in our apple trees before they joined up with their whole family.

I raised my hands to the sky and said, “Yes!” Not in victory, but in joy and gratitude. The bluebirds had done what they know instinctively to do, and it worked. I helped in small ways, but it was not my victory. It was theirs.