“I have to find my other wing.”

All Saints Day.  This is a day of ritual in the church I attend.  On this day we remember the life of those we love and who have blessed our lives with their love.  Candles are lit as we tell stories. Their memories wing into our lives like the flight of a song a bird dancing on currents of the wind.

Bette, my mother-in-law, died on All Saints day several years ago.  She blessed the lives of her children and grandchildren with a quiet, gentle Scandinavian presence.  Her presence, often without words was her primary language for  showing love embodying the gift of just showing up. She attended baseball games, basketball games, football games, musicals, recitals and even boring lectures to show her support for those she loved. The gift was her consistent presence.  She often sat with my son Brent into the late night watching David Letterman.  They didn’t talk much, yet her presence revealed their mutual admiration.

Bette also loved birds.  She hung many feeders in the tiered gardens outside her kitchen.  She greeted cardinals, chickadees, hummingbirds, orioles and even the simple sparrows with generous amounts of seed and suet.  She often wore a sweatshirt with a bird painted on the front.  Perhaps these birds were her own amulet.

Bette lived with us during the last weeks of her life.  She battled breast cancer with an internal stubborn fierceness which betrayed her gentle external manner. This power surprised us.  As the pain of the disease gathered strength, the medications increased in dosage to make her more comfortable.

Bette grew weaker spending most of her time in a hospice bed.  From the window, she quietly watched the many birds that gathered in the trees and bushes greeting her each day with their presence and song. They were a constant companion.  Before falling into a deep coma, she voiced a simple longing to join them. Her last words were, “I have to find my other wing.”

Within a few days,  Bette’s breathing grew shallower.  The family had not yet arrived.  Pastor Natalie, a close friend and colleague sat with Bette and me. Natalie was several months pregnant.  We gathered as midwives,  watching, waiting with a ministry of presence to accompany Bette into this journey of bridging death with the promise of new life.

Soon the birds began to arrive.  Several chickadees gathered, perching themselves on the bush outside the window chirping loudly.  Bette’ s breath changed into gasps further apart.  One of the birds moved to the outside ledge of the window and began tapping on the glass .  “Come,” it seemed to plead. “Come fly with us.”  As Bette breathed her last with a sigh of death, the birds flew away.  Silence. Sacred silence surrounded us.

Bette found her other wing.  Her life ended, yet her spirit remains as memories and love and stories wing into our lives like the song of a bird on the currents of the wind.