An Affinity for Mystery

Zebra was my family’s pet bird for about a decade. He was a parakeet and we named him Zebra because of his shocking black streaks against a pure white background of feathers. The blue bump above his beak indicated his gender, but for the longest time we couldn’t figure out if it signified “female” or “male.” I don’t know if my parents were as confused about it as I was, but I remember being baffled for months. I’m still not completely satisfied that I know he was a boy.

In fact, there were a lot of things I didn’t understand about that bird:

Why does he always fly in three perfect circles around the living room? Why does he always, always land on our heads, when our shoulders are just as comfortable for perching? Why doesn’t he ever fly into the hallway?

Why can’t he learn that we don’t want bird poop in our hair?

I found myself asking those questions and others as I grew up with Zebra – especially in the early years. He was interesting and different. Eventually, however, he became a fixture in our home and I stopped noticing the mystery.

I was reminded of it just a few days ago when the friends who adopted Zebra when we left Austria called me into their office down the hall. They had some pictures of him that they wanted to share. They shared stories with me about their time with him, mostly funny, and reminded me of the intelligence and personality that he really had.

They also shared with me the story of the day Zebra died.

It was a week day and they were getting ready to go to work. Zebra had been sick for a while, coughing, and they knew that he wasn’t going to live much longer. So, when he refused to stay in the living room and kept flying into the bathroom with them, they knew something was up. Instead of taking him back into the living room the last time, the husband let Zebra land in his hand. Zebra settled in the palm of the man’s hand and looked up at him, into his eyes.

A second passed and nobody made a sound.

Gently, Zebra shuffled around to lie down. He kept his eyes on the man’s eyes. Then, he died.

Why did Zebra do that?

It was a few days ago that they shared that story with me and I’ve been asking that question since. I think I have an answer, but it simply opens up more questions, so I’ve been dancing around it . . . Zebra didn’t want to die alone. He wanted to be with somebody . . .

Like I said, this opens up more questions than I have time to think about, let alone answer. Yet, it also takes the lid off a piece of me that I put in a jar sometimes, that I let idle. It’s okay to be okay with mystery. This story of a bird dying in the palm of a man’s hand evokes mystery and that very feeling is good. This idea has been a source of comfort to me over the past few days: mystery is good.

I think about that truth when I think about finances. I rest in the mystery when I watch the minutes fly by as I try to prepare solid lessons.

Shh . . . it’s okay to not be in control. When direction seems enveloped in mystery and I just don’t know, then it’s the perfect time to be still. God gave us all an affinity for mystery in certain circumstances, perhaps to help us not be so scared of it. He recognizes that we enjoy mystery as long as there’s not too much risk involved. Like a good father, he recognizes that and wants to teach us trust. Faith. Mystery offers me the opportunity to depend on God and, really, I should look forward to that because, after all, that’s not much of a risk.