In the dream I am a baby eagle. I’ve fallen from my branchy abode and speed down toward a rocky grave.
This is it. I am done. In my carelessness I suppose I could’ve fallen? Or maybe an eagle sibling shoved me out? Did I jump? How did I get here? I can’t remember. Either way, whatever the reason—deserved or not—it’s over.
I’m watching it from afar, but also very present in this little hatchling’s body. The granite zooms closer as gravity hurls me to my demise. But wait, what’s that? A brown blur.
As it gains momentum I can see it’s my Mama Eagle, coming to the rescue.
I mumble: Too bad she won’t make it in time. Why would she come and save me, anyway? She doesn’t know whether I have earned this terror or not. Save your energy, Mama Eagle, just let me go.
In her quickly-approaching eyes I see the answer: Silly thing, I don’t need to know your circumstances or choices. All I know is that you’re in trouble, and I will never let you reach those rocks.
Moments before I splatter she swoops underneath my urine-soaked feathers & flesh and carries me back up the nest.
Ohhhh. I exhale. This is what Grace feels like.
This is the simultaneous gutting and glory of a being who’s chosen to trust in a Love that makes zero god-damn sense. She didn’t care about my lifestyle choices, my religion, or the dreadful stories I counted as Truth. All my Mama Eagle saw was a little thing, forgetful and perfect, in need of a some swooping.
How many times have I mumbled, too bad She won’t make it in time? (See sister dying, dads leaving, mom hitting, marriage vows broken, chronic pain after bone marrow transplant, infertility, addiction nearly costing me the life of my son.) At least seven, but probably closer to 300.
How many times have I hit the rocks? Zero.