The other morning, just a few days before the presidential election, I sat chatting and eating brunch with a group of friends in a cozy living room. As we discussed the possible impending results (none of us really believing, in that moment, that we would ever hear the words “President Trump“) a sub-plot made its way into the conversation: as we ate homemade muffins and scrambled eggs, a rustling sound periodically emanated from the chimney of a nearby wood stove. After a round of “what’s that??” the homeowners told us the unfortunate story of the trapped bird.
The wife, a new mother, no-doubt stewing in a brew of maternal instincts, was beside herself. “I just want it to die or go free. I can’t stand the suffering!!” she declared, hands over her face.
The husband, a competent carpenter, explained that due to the way the chimney was constructed, there was no way to reach the bird. He shifted in his chair and shrugged his shoulders regretfully.
“Can I try? Please?” one guest implored. “I’m pretty sure I can get it,” she said, noting her small hands and bird-loving spirit.
I confessed aloud to having emotionally removed myself from the bird after deciding its fate was sealed. I ate my muffin and offered sympathetic facial expressions to my more compassionate friends.
Together, several of them poked and prodded and twisted, finally adjusting the flue just right, allowing the small-handed, bird-loving friend to reach up towards the now frantically flapping wings. Black soot puffed out of the chimney and into the sunny air.
“I touched it!” she said.
A series of pauses, reaches, and flapping-wings ensued. After several failed attempts, we all joined in a discussion comparing the potential harm (both physical and psychological) that could befall the bird during the rescue effort, and the harm of letting it die slowly but without a massive predator-induced adrenaline rush.
I sipped my coffee and voted to let it be. Let it be. Let it be. You know the rest of the words. The rescue attempt made my heart beat too hard.
Another friend stepped up and added his animal-loving spirit and able hands to the mix: more tries, more flapping, more soot.
And then, finally…”I got it!”
“What?!” and “Really???” and “Oh my gosh!!!”
Someone jumped up to open the door. Cradling the bird in his hands, our friend stepped outside onto the second-floor porch and tossed it into the autumn sky. It soared. We cheered.
And that’s what hope and persistence can accomplish.
Even when things seem impossible.
Like when you’re a progressive in Indiana in November of 2016.
It’s been a bit of a jumble inside my mind in recent days. Just as we were engaged in a pointed community conversation (thank you, Richard Aguirre) about having an exclusively white group of honorees representing the entirety of Elkhart County for Indiana’s Bicentennial, something hopeful was quietly blossoming in Goshen.