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By Root 484 0

of his raucous behavior. Having learned to fly, he made himself at home in my office, leaving his droppings on the windowsill, the back of my sofa, and occasionally my head. As much as I loved him, I knew it was time for him to go. In preparation for his release, I added live bugs and red berries to his diet, presenting the berries still attached to their leafy stems so that he would recognize them in the wild. He was so ravenous that I had no fear he would find plenty to eat on his own, but I still found reasons to delay his release. One day it would look like rain outside, and the next day he would look a little thin. What would I do without him to look after every day?

One sunny afternoon near the end of the sixth week, I decided not to take him home for the weekend. I would release him where I found him, near the same bush in the church courtyard. Maybe some of his kin were still hanging around and would show him the ropes. Maybe I would see him sometimes, even if I could not tell him from all the other starlings. Picking him up with one hand and cradling him against my body, I carried him outside. I told him how great his life was going to be while I stroked him for the last time, already seized with such tearful sorrow that I did not know if I could let him go. Then I opened my hand and he sprang into the air, flying so high, so fast, that I lost sight of him in a second.

Well, that’s that, I thought, heading back into the church. Still teary, I packed up my briefcase and put the lid on the battered shoebox. I turned off the lights, locked the door, and walked down the stairs toward the parking lot, turning right at the last moment to take the long way through the courtyard. The place was deserted, of birds and of humans too. Goodbye, I said to the empty air, waiting a moment to see if anything stirred. When it did not, I turned my back and headed for the sidewalk. Well, good, I thought. He’s really gone, and that was the whole point, wasn’t it? To take care of him until he could take care of himself. Then I heard a screech I recognized, but before I could turn back toward the courtyard to see where it had come from, I felt half a dozen bird toenails dig into my scalp. Baby was back, and it would take a second release deep in the woods of north Georgia before he flew away for good.

In years to come, I often thought of this as a parable of my life in the church. I had such a strong instinct for rescue that my breasts fairly leaked when I came across those in need of rescuing. Mother Church gave me a way to bring this instinct under God’s roof. I took in as many fledglings as I could, fully intending to release them when they could fly, but the intimacy that developed between us made the releasing hard to do. Feeding others became my food. When they came back to dig their claws into my scalp, I took it as a compliment, at least until the flock had become so large that I could not hold my head up anymore.

When that time came, I decided that if the parable were true then God might be calling me to the woods of north Georgia again, where I could release the load I was carrying and take a second run at being both priest and whole.

CHAPTER

5

Although the bishop had put my name on the list of nominees for Grace-Calvary, the rest was out of my hands. For close to a year, I waited while the search committee surveyed the congregation, composed a parish profile, and distributed it to potential candidates. As soon as I received my copy, I sent the updated résumé that I had already prepared. Some months after that, I learned that I had survived the final cut.

“A few of us want to hear you preach,” the chair of the committee said over my home telephone as the blood started banging in my ears. “How soon can we come?”

She and I set a date. I produced a fulsome sermon. When the appointed Sunday arrived, I used all of my best grooming skills. I picked the cat hairs off my most expensive suit, smoothed my hair, and put a Band-Aid on the thumb I had chewed while working overtime on the sermon. Once I met the delegation