I saw a mother quail pulling a string behind her, parting the thick, green
grass. I was charmed by her adorable headdress -- a little decoration, really,
that bobbed as she walked along.
I watched from the kitchen window, as she proceeded along in a straight,
determined line. Was the string attached to her leg? Or did she pull it along in
her beak. The string stretched back, a good six feet behind her. I just had to
find out what was going on.
I slipped out the back door, and I tip-toed from tree to tree, coming ever
closer, for a better view. I could see, at one point, that she noticed me,
cocking her head, just barely. That should have been warning enough to make me
turn back. But my curiosity became unbearable, as I sought to expose her secret.
I inched closer and closer, until I was right upon her. Taking my eyes off of
the lady, I gazed straight down, right into the frightened eyes of a covey of
baby quail!
Stunned, I took a step back, and the babies began to scream! Each scream was
multiplied by fifteen tiny, scurrying, scattering babies. They ran, flat out for
the rhubarb patch! I figured I was in for a pecking from Mamma quail, and I
stood stark-still.
Then Mamma began this little dance. Suddenly her wing became "broken" as she
fluttered and dragged it, ever approaching closer to my feet. She came right up
to me, and she flopped like a wounded chicken, enticing me to take her, and not
her babies.
"I'm so sorry, little mother," I cried, backing away. She followed me all the
way up to the back door as I slipped back inside, and only then, did she go
tearing over to the rhubarb patch. With shrieking cries and flapping wings, she
searched and called to her babies.
My heart broke, as I watched her, helplessly wondering if she would ever find
all of them. I never knew.
How awful I felt. I knew that I had blundered onto something precious and
sacred. A cruel unknowing had caused the real terror of innocent, living beings.
It has haunted me for forty years, and it still bothers me.
It occurred to me, recently, that there are many such blunders, in this life,
that hurt others. That first rush to tell someone, how awful their new haircut
looks. That irresistible urge we have to explain to someone with medical
problems, how "Aunt Sadie died." And what about the things that we are not
certain of? What about the times that we repeat the gossip we hear, just to feel
a part of the crowd?
How do we treat that new family at church? Do we grill them for information, and
then dump them once we know everything? Or do we speak to them at all? And the
new girl at work. Do we overcome our own discomfort so that we can help her over
those first terrible weeks, when she feels new, and strange, and friendless? Or
do we cling to those we know, comforting ourselves with the notion that we
belong, never thinking about how uncomfortable it must feel to be a stranger?
How we treat others says a lot about who we are. What we say about others,
speaks volumes about what we are. The things we say about others, says more
about us, than it says about them.
I've been on the "inside" and I've been on the "outside," but the happiest times
of my life are when I have been on the "right" side -- the side of sensitivity,
acceptance, compassion and love.
Jaye Lewis jlewis@smyth.net
The Illustrator: This daily newsletter is dedicated to encouraging
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