The Day the Birds Saved the Baby Jesus
Patricia Fish
“Tonight’s Christmas Eve, Mom. Didja get the book ready?”
I nodded absently to my excited daughter as I fought to stretch the pie-crust dough an extra inch.
Linda was nine on this memorable Christmas and I mentally vowed that this would be absolutely the last year I would read her the story. Before I read it to her this eve, I would make her promise not to ask me to read it again, ever. A big ten-year old won’t need silly stories, I’ll tell her.
It was just a stupid thing that I wrote the Christmas that Linda turned five. Since, for each and every Christmas eve, she would insist that I read it all over again. The thing was politically and religiously incorrect, sure to anger both the evolutionists and the bible-thumpers. It was not accurate a bit as regards the natural order of things. And it was most definitely a case of anthromorphism.
I dusted the flour off my hands and pulled the ratty manuscript out from under the kitchen island. At midnight tonight, I would throw this thing in the trash, forever.
Linda was already in her bed, her long blonde hair brushed to the angelic gold that only children posess. As she sat by her bedroom window, the flashing lights of the neighbor’s Christmas display would bathe her innocent face in shades of green, red, yellow and white. There would never be a replacement for a child’s joy on Christmas eve, not ever and no matter how much they commercialize it. I sat down next to Linda and began to read the story.
The Day the Birds Saved the Baby Jesus
On Christmas Eve, something magical happens to the birds of the world. For on this night, and not on any other, the older birds are allowed to come out from their night time roosts and tell the story of how the birds saved the baby Jesus. They don’t exactly “tell” the story, in the human sense, but rather send the tale via an instinct sort of extra-sensory perception. And on each Christmas Eve, it is one species that is chosen to instinct/tell the tale. All of the other birds must listen to the story as told by the year’s chosen species. Thus, every species of birds is represented.
If this seems an unusual arrangement, it is most because of the unusual reward given to the birds by the greatful baby Jesus. Because the birds saved His life, He gave them the gift of song. But it was more than the gift of song, explained the baby Jesus, it was the honor of becoming His representative on earth for all the sounds of all the species. It was most important that the birds remain as their distinct and individual species, as charged by the baby Jesus, to provide variety and diversity in their sounds that would be wellspring of all the sounds of His world. This is why the birds species telling the story must change each year. And for this particular year, it was the titmouses turn to tell the story.
The snow was falling in that quiet way that can be as loud as thunder. The Christmas lights of the humans blinked merrily, both very close and from a great distance.
In a former woodpecker hole, a family of titmouses sat and watched the snow. There was a palpable excitement in the tiny roost but none of the birds quite understood what was about. They all just knew that something special was going to happen tonight. At this hour, the little bird family would normally be huddled in their night roost to conserve warmth . Tonight was special and even the activity in the human house would indicate this. For lights of many colors flashed all around the roof, there was a buzz of human activity, and the sounds of beautiful music fell on the titmouses’ ears.
These little birds lived in a world of sound. They did not understand the concept of lyrics or notes or sheet music. They did know the sounds, and the sounds of the humans’ Christmas music filled the night as if every bird over the whole world were to all sing at once. It would soon be midnight, and the patriarch of the little titmouse family would then tell the birds’ story to all of avian life.
While the humans sang their merry songs and opened the presents, a most unusual thing was happening to all the bird life the same humans normally only saw during the daylight hours. At the stroke of midnight on Christmas eve, all of the birds from all over the world came out from their night time roosts. This happens every year, but as yet no human has witnessed the event. It becomes necessary to listen to the titmouse tell his story to understand why this is so.
“To my children and their children,” the little titmouse instinct/spoke to be heard by all the birds of the world now outside of their nighttime roosts, “I must now tell the story of how the birds saved the baby Jesus and celebrate the reward given to our kind by the Savior.”
The little titmouse children looked around the night world with their wide eyes of wonder. The songs of the humans’ music wafted through the cold air to cause even the birds now out of their roosts to stop and listen.
“For the baby Jesus does not only belong to the humans” the titmouse instinct/spoke so loud and clear that the Red Ibis in the heart of Costa Rica instinct/heard him perfectly. “The baby Jesus belongs to all the creatures of the world. And the birds of this world saved His life for our own and the humans’ celebration.”
“It was a hot day when the baby Jesus lay in His cradle,” the titmouse instinct/spoke, “and His mother and father were busy. The snake that started to crawl up the cradle was not seen by the parents of the baby Jesus. “
The beautiful strains of “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear” drifted up to the tiny titmouse roost as the little titmouse continued his story.
“The birds saw the snake, though, and soon the air was full of robins, cardinals, doves, blue jays, chickadees, and every other species of bird. The birds dove into the snake as one mighty unit. The snake finally left from the baby’s cradle and the birds settled down to receive the blessing of the Holy Baby.”
“It was then that the Baby Jesus gave the birds of His world the beauty of their song. The song, said the Baby Jesus, that would be the basis of all music and sounds in His world.”
At five minutes after midnight on what was now Christmas day, all the birds of the world returned to their night roosts. As if the whole thing never happened, the birds slept as the sounds of “Silent Night” permeated their roosts.
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“That was good, Mommy. I’m glad it was the titmouses this year that got to tell the story. I think they are so cute.” Using this changing pattern, I could vary the story from year to year. Last year, the cardinal did the telling.
I patted Linda’s head and we then began the second segment of our annual Christmas Eve fun.
It was actually Linda’s idea to add this part to the story, but it was great fun and probably informative, I thought my proud mother self. For when Linda asked me, the year she was seven, how the birds were the source of all the sounds of the world, I invented this little game.
We would take a particular bird’s song. Then I would sing a “human” song that was supposed to have been based upon our chosen bird. We always started this session out with a robin.
“Cheeriup, Cheeriup, Cheerily.” I sang to Linda.
“You’re in the army now, You’re in the army now, You’ll never get rich by digging a ditch, you’re in the army now.” Linda sang back.
“Cheeriup, Cheeriup, Cheerily.” I responded.
We go on to the cardinal. I start the song “What cheer, what cheer, pretty, pretty, pretty, sweet, sweet, sweet.”
After I sing the cardinal’s second ‘cheer’, Linda chimes in with “Somewhere, over the rainbow, bluebirds sing, birds sing over the rainbow, why then oh why can’t I?”
I sing a chickadee’s haunting “Pheee-beee. Pheee-beee”.
Linda begins:
“Wise men say...”
“Pheee-bee, Pheee-bee”
“Only fools rush in...”
“Pheee-bee, Pheee-bee”
“But I can’t help
Falling in Love with you”
“Pheee-bee,Pheee-bee”
We get a little strange with the white-throat sparrow’s rhythmic “Old Sam Peabody, Peabody, Peabody.” For this, we do the Kinks:
“Old Sam....”
“Babe. You really got me babe....”
“Peabody, Peabody, Peabody....”
“You got me so I can’t sleep at night.”
Since the titmouse was the chosen bird this year, we end our song fest with its soft and sweet “Peter, Peter”.
I sing softly “peter, peter...”
Linda sings “Some enchanted evening...”
“peter, peter....”
“You may see a stranger...”
“peter, peter....”
“You may see a stranger...”
“peter, peter...”
“Across a crowded room.”
I finally get Linda to sleep shortly before midnight and I still had those pies to finish. I carry the raggedy manuscript into the kitchen and push the pedal to open the trash can lid. Before I make another move, something flashes across the window. I wander over to look.
On every branch in every tree and even though it is midnight, a bird sits and listens as if to an unknown voice.
