Consider the Chickadee

An essay by Tonia Stacey Gütting

Photo by Kevin Cress on Unsplash

Not a breath of breeze moves in Fairbanks, Alaska, from November to March. The bare birch trees stand as frigid statues. Even the wind seems frozen solid, allowing the hoar frost to grow like coral on every surface. But the cold moves. At twenty below this morning, it slithers quickly into the tight seams of my mittens, permeating right through my waterproof rubber boots, layers of felt soles, nest of fake fur, wool sock, liner sock, to my naked toes. It instantly frosts my eyelashes, and I have to remember to blink a lot so it doesn’t damage my eyes.

Still, I hold my stance: feet planted on the crunchy two-feet-deep snow, arm out, hand cupped holding the black sunflower seeds. I slow my breathing so the puff of steam billowing out of my scarf and around my head doesn’t scare them so much. I try to ignore the bite of cold on my pinky toe and stay still.

The tiny birds flit from branch to branch above me, scolding me for being in their world, yet hopping closer. To most people, the little bird flashing by my head belongs in the just-a-sparrow species. But the eye of the beholder sees the jaunty cap, the saucy attitude, and hears the jubilant name’s sake call: “Chickadee-dee-dee.”

The cold is the antagonist here, a bitter witch all of creation must fight. The chickadee would appear to be one of its most simple targets. A mere baby abandoned on the battlefield to be trampled by the enemy without breaking stride.

I promised the little bird I would do this. Not the hand-feeding, which he is reticent to try with me even though other Alaskans master it. I promised to keep the feeder full of the little wrapped packages of sunlight—gifts of God to keep this .45-ounce bird going when the sun only shows itself for a couple of hours in the sub-Arctic north. I promised this back when I was sitting on my deck in shorts with the midnight sun making long, lazy circles around the June sky. I and mMost of God’s creatures were doing our best to cram in all of our summer work in the 24-hour light.

For our family, it was painting the deck. While we power-blasted all the knots and nooks, the birch tree seeds took to the air again like a ticker tape parade. The chickadee watched me undoing all of his hard work from the roof. I had seen him and his family gather the tiny wafers, flit about the deck to find crannies, and stuff them in. With each stash, his brain expanded to remember the file—one meal placed under the railing, one in the knot on the third spindle, another in the crack of the cross piece. Over the summer, the hippocampus of his brain grew 30% to remember thousands of these spots through miles of forest.

I felt badly painting over those cracks, knots, joints—his pantry caches. Sometimes my brush would catch another seed, a piece of dust in my paint. We dislodged and swept away so many of their wafers. So I promised to keep the feeder full this winter, full to overflowing so they can kick a bunch to the ground where the grouse will pluck it from the snow. The chickadees will call out their find, willingly share with their flock. They’ll eat 60% of their body weight in those three hours of sunlight we get, gaining 10% of weight each day and losing it again each night while shivering in a hypothermic state.

But regardless of an empty or full feeder, manna will shower from heaven in the late winter, the birch seeds again shaking loose and leaving tan confetti over the snow. Outrageous, extravagant abundance so few will want.

Even while surrounded by this constant feast, my brain struggles to remember. The heating bills cause a panic, the groceries a constant fight, the test scores, evaluations, military orders—all arrows saying not enough, not enough, not enough.

Most Americans think of snow birds coming for the winter, but for Alaskans, it’s all in the leaving. In the spring we park around a popular field as if going to a drive-in theater to see their arrivals. Large flocks of people watching large flocks of cranes, snow geese, swans, and ducks waddle over the melting puddles and swim through the reflecting ponds. In the fall, the winged creatures gather in bunches here again, starting in August, the hurried childhood of their young in preparation for this time. From the fanned out expanses, they reverse course to congregate and flow like a ribbon through the mountain corridor heading south.

But the chickadee will stay, unconcerned of where his next meal will come from, even when his preparation efforts were thwarted. He holds no more control over this bite than he did the last one. The Master Designer won’t take him out of the path of the winter storm, but He will strengthen him for it. The bird’s heart rate will slow tonight when he nestles into a deep cavity in a birch tree with a dozen of his buddies. His feathers will fluff. He will just keep praising with the song he knows. He watches. He remembers.

I shudder my body, trying to shake off the cold. I’ve only made it a few minutes in this arctic air, but the world inside calls me—the one with bills to pay, and kids to get into college, and supper to make. I pour the seeds back onto the feeder. I try to expand my brain to remember this Rosetta stone lesson, this translation of God’s language. Turning to leave, I hear their wings as they quickly fill the space behind me.

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Tonia Stacey Gütting combines a deep passion for Jesus with a love of writing in her work, which includes freelancing and writing devotionals for military families through American Bible Society. She has been published by Christianity Today, The Globe, YouVersion Bible App, and others. Married to a retired Army Chaplain, they are now farming in Louisiana where she plays St. Francis to a couple of crazy pups, a small menagerie herd, and a grumpy cat. Tonia and Darrick raised and homeschooled 3 great military brats. She enjoys writing, teaching and speaking, reading and ruminating over a good cup of tea, as well as hiking and all things outdoors. She can be found at her Substack.