Behind the Bushes

What my Backyard is teaching me about the cycle of life

This is a big week for our family. Each year for the past 6 years I have prepared my heart for anniversary week, the week we remember and celebrate the life of our first son, Benjamin. You could imagine it something like a holy week. It begins with a birthday celebration and then, because Benjamin was only with us for a little over a week, I recall and honor the significant decisions, moments, and stages of his life long the way. There's miracle day, the day we took him off life support. There was a day of waiting, a day of prayer with our church family, a day of homecoming and finally the day of his passing.

I make space to remember all of it. We typically do a birthday party with the kids and we usually do some sort of "heaven party" on his passing day. Everything in between is flexible depending on what the Lord brings up and what I'm feeling or needing that year.

This year was no different. I made a few plans, but by and large it was a normal work week, just with heightened awareness. And in the awareness I found myself staring out the window into our backyard. A lot.

Our house backs up to a parklike landscape. Tall, mature, trees crowd the neighborhood backyards making a canopy of shade for residence and a cool place for wildlife to retreat. We regularly spot deer, fox, woodpeckers, cardinals, rabbits, hawks, and the occasional lizard. It just so happened, though, that on the anniversary of Benjamin's birth we got a special treat. A mama doe and her fawn lay in the shade, perfectly positioned for us to watch from our bay windows.

We ooooh-ed and aaaaa-eh, as we observed the sweet scene. Baby was boundin between trees and taking frequent breaks to nurse in the shade. Mama seemed unphased by our watching eyes. It was beautiful. A peaceful maternal scene on a significant day when motherhood was especially on my mind.

Just a few days later, and as my mind was shifting from Benjamin's birth to his death, the scene in my backyard also changed. While I was clearing the table from the morning's breakfast I spotted something out the same window. A squirrel was acting very strange, rolling around in the grass, then thrashing about. I took off down the steps to see if I could get a closer look and possibly be of more help. When I got within feet of the creature it was obvious this wasn't going to end well.

The squirrel had thrown himself into the bushes. His eyes were rolling back and his body was seizing. It was a hot day and I wondered if he'd succumbed to the heat. I tried to cool him off with a bucket of pool water in hopes it may jolt him out of his fit. He seemed to relax as the water hit his body. But the seizing continued and he curled into himself. I watched as I realized these were the same bushes that I'd looked at days earlier and observed mama dear nurturing her new life.

I wanted to fix it. I wanted to help, either put him out of his misery or relieve him from the pain. My mind went to the toxic spray that had been used around our house earlier in the month and wondered if we'd caused this premature death. There was no sign of blood or injury, so surely something internal was damaged.

Then, as I've learned to do, I breathed in deeply and decided to bear witness. It was clear by now I couldn't save the squirrel. He was going to die and it wasn't a graceful death. But just as I laid eyes on the fawn starting its life, I wanted to hold space for the little life before me that was ending. I disciplined my mind to be still and bless the moment.

All of life begins and all of life ends. I want to witness both and not turn away, not value one more than the other, but treat both as sacred. In doing so I want to be more present to life's joys and griefs. In doing so I hope to teach my children not to look away, but to honor, rejoice, cry, and be still. All of life is a gift and to bear witness is the greatest gift of all.

I returned to my work inside after only a few minutes. My laptop was set up at the kitchen table overlooking the bushes. For now it was back to emails and documents. But quietly, silently, something had shifted inside of me. Sobriety took the place of business and gratitude covered both.

For one, the bushes were a refuge for life providing a cool place to rest and grow. For another they became a final resting place, a covering of natures embrace.

Cover us, Lord. In all that transpires you will be our resting place. Shade us from the heat of the day and blanket us with your eternal rest.

You can read more about my obsession with the beauty of life and death here.

https://katieegli.wordpress.com/2017/07/25/the-privilege-of-being-human/