Once I was held prisoner in my room for 10 weeks. Preterm labor demanded bedrest if I wanted to give my unborn babies a chance. I lived in fear of losing them.
I also lived in fear of crows.
Almost every day of my bedrest crows came to haunt me. They curled their talons and straightened their black cloaks on the bare winter branches outside my window. They stared in my room with sinister eyes and cawed menacingly. I trembled. There was no roadkill in my room for them to eat.
Whose death were they waiting for?
Were they circling over the twins I was desperately trying to grow inside my huge belly? Did they think my babies weren’t going to make it? Did they know something I didn’t?
One day I couldn’t take it anymore. I untangled myself from the contraction monitor, subcutaneous terbutaline pump, long white compression socks, and twisted blankets and heaved myself out of bed. I punched at the window with one hand and guarded my babies with the other. “Go away!” I shouted tearfully. “Get out!” They laughed with disdain and flew to the next tree. The neighbor’s dog barked.
My heart raced. I knew they’d be back.
My babies were born and they flourished. But I couldn’t shake the fear of death whenever I saw crows. I didn’t want to see the flattened carcass or droopy pink baby animal near their beaks. I didn’t want to hear their caws and remember the weeks they mocked me.
When we moved to Georgia last year I started running in the woods. I often shared my runs with deer, ducks, sparrows, and happy dogs. Except for the lonely day I was ambushed by crows. When I emerged from the protective canopy of the forest they were waiting for me please continue reading at Perissos
[featured on Perissos 10/17/16]
- Before this epiphany, I always saw crows as Bullies and associated them with shame.
- I’ve encountered God often while running in the woods, often I’m Running Away from him.
©Aimee Fritz & Family Compassion Focus, 2016.